


Triple Threat

by charcuterieaznable



Category: Universal Century Gundam, 機動戦士ガンダム | Mobile Suit Gundam (TV 1979)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Intrigue, Introspection, M/M, Oral Sex, Unreliable Narrator, dont get it twisted. i think garmas a cutie but hes also a fascist so i must bully him, is fucking war crimes a tag?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 49,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcuterieaznable/pseuds/charcuterieaznable
Summary: “Your Majesty-.” He tries, but is shut down:“Garma.”“The Most High And Honorable Garma Zabi,” He corrects, and lets their fingers brush as he grabs the glass from his host. “I’m not that kind of man.”“Then what kind of man are you, Char?” Garma asks, not perturbed in the slightest. So he expected to be turned down today, very interesting. And very self-aware.Hm.So he takes a long drink of his wine, watching Garma as he watches him, and plots.-Yes, Char is named after the sound effect 'shaa', as in 'appearing suddenly', but his name is also partially inspired by Tomino's favorite lounge singer, Charles Aznavour.What if someone with way too much time on his hands took this little fact and ran with it?aka the Charma lounge singer AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Char Aznable & Lalah Sune, Char Aznable & Sayla Mass, Char Aznable/Garma Zabi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. ACT ONE- Garma Zabi

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present to Number One Garma Zabi Stan K*ylee (name censored because after today I will be using it solely as a slur) but if you are not the aforementioned lesbian; welcome, I hope you enjoy, and I'm so sorry.
> 
> This started, as all good fanfictions do, with me calling char whorish in a discord server and spiraled into this from there- a complete re-imagining of the one year war. because i dont have impulse control.
> 
> Char is a mess. his characterization is so dependent on his current situation/circumstances and the role he's decided he must play that I had a bit of a Time(tm) deciding what was in and out of character for this jackass, as I have Put Him In A Situation. I ended up using bits of all of his iterations, even char as far ahead as zeta and cca as references for behavior. 
> 
> Garma is here, and that's also Fun. To me, a big part of the charma appeal is the Trauma. The Vibes. The Sexual Tension. There's all sorts of weird layers to Char and Garma, but the fact that there is genuinely a bit of friendship and mutual affection from both parties is *chef kiss*. I am thinking about Garma; send tweet.
> 
> Anyways, bone app the teeth. Enjoy my retelling of the OYW as moments through charma colored glasses. This will have spoilers for the original gundam series (0079) and the origins anime (which i reference sparingly for details of chars life pre-fic, as dubiously canonical as origins is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a birthday present to Number One Garma Zabi Stan K*ylee (name censored because after today I will be using it solely as a slur) but if you are not the aforementioned lesbian; welcome, I hope you enjoy, and I'm so sorry.
> 
> This started, as all good fanfictions do, with me calling char whorish in a discord server and spiraled into this from there- a complete re-imagining of the one year war. because i dont have impulse control.
> 
> Char is a mess. his characterization is so dependent on his current situation/circumstances and the role he's decided he must play that I had a bit of a Time(tm) deciding what was in and out of character for this jackass, as I have Put Him In A Situation. I ended up using bits of all of his iterations, even char as far ahead as zeta and cca as references for behavior.
> 
> Garma is here, and that's also Fun. To me, a big part of the charma appeal is the Trauma. The Vibes. The Sexual Tension. There's all sorts of weird layers to Char and Garma, but the fact that there is genuinely a bit of friendship and mutual affection from both parties is *chef kiss*. I am thinking about Garma; send tweet.
> 
> Anyways, bone app the teeth. Enjoy my retelling of the OYW as moments through charma colored glasses. This will have spoilers for the original gundam series (0079) and the origins anime (which i reference sparingly for details of chars life pre-fic, as dubiously canonical as origins is)

_AUGUST_ , _UC 0078_.

 _It’s what he’s been waiting for_ , he reminds himself. Why was he alive, why was he here if it was not in anticipation for opportunities like these?

The party is lavish. He remembers this room, he thinks. His eyes catch on corners and angles and lines in the composition of the room and hesitate, like he’s stuck on them for a moment, like he knows them, but it’s vague and hazy.

It has decent acoustics.

Char is here, in one of the many entertainment halls of the Zabi Estate, for background noise, something to hide less than honorable words from honorable men. That was always how events in polite society were held and most likely how they always would be, the important there to stay important and do their dirty dealings under the ruse of mingling, and the common only there when they were extraordinary in situation or in ability; something they could pay their way in with. Everything said and done within these walls had a price- both ‘price’ in the currency-sense and as in ‘consequence’- interpersonal connections were little more than something to be used as bartering chips, as bridges to be crossed and bridges to be burned. Here and now Char is less of an ‘honorable man’ and more of a caged bird, brought here by one of his own few bridges. From his perch on the stage he can see all, observing and learning under the guise of performance, his own little political drama that marches to the beat of the songs he sings and the music his accompaniment plays. So he sings, softly, with yearning, and rough with something sweeter than rage, and looks as non-threatening as possible in the room his family used to walk through, looks demure and obedient for murderers and scum and traitors, and watches the guests play cloak and dagger with their dirty laundry. He wonders if any of them remember him. He’s changed, purposefully and on accident, and he’s certainly grown. Gone is solemn, polite Casval, a quiet studious shadow in his father’s study and a small yet loyal helper at his mother’s side. Instead he is Char Aznable, the talent from Side Five who sings pretty songs and curls his pretty hair and accepts the pretty things that people gift him but plays hard to get. Who always smiles with pearly white teeth and always stands in ways that draw attention to his long legs and small waist. Who always listens and never forgets.

Char Aznable never forgets, so he knows the man of honor when he sees him. He’s one of the regulars, shirking his duties and stealing away to loiter at Char’s seedy little nightclub as often as he can afford to, and always buys Char a drink or three. His absences apparently didn’t seem to affect his record too heavily since they were all here for him. He’s as nice as a high ranking officer can be, nice enough and high ranking enough that a promotion earns a celebration like this one instead of a letter in the mail. It strikes him as peculiar, the amount of supposed promotions and other military bullshit that had been happening the past month or so. For a colony that was busy bartering for Side Three’s autonomy and supporting Side-Side commerce there sure was a lot of movement in the structure of the militia in Munzo as of late. It was probably nothing- if you would call storm clouds on the horizon nothing. Luckily, to extend his metaphor, Char was an avid cloud-watcher.

His current position was perfect if not precarious for that exact activity. People wanting a pretty young thing hanging off their arm would never go out of style, and though that wasn’t the kind of entertainment he was taught to provide it didn’t stop people from trying and staying just out of reach was half the fun. People said the most interesting things when they were trying to impress you or didn’t look past your sharp blue eyes to the sharp mind behind them. For as long as he maintained his current facade as someone available and desirable he would keep getting jobs and jobs would get him connections and connections would get him information which would get him closer and closer to the top where he could-.

Where he could do _something_ besides bat his eyelashes and wear shirts opened one button too many.

The old reliable method of showing some skin was working well tonight. At the beginning of the event the game was always rather chaste, mainly stolen glances and lingering eye contact but after the alcohol started flowing and the blackmail started getting slung around all bets were off on how forward people would get with their advances, and how indulgent Char would be. This crowd was particularly sloshed and particularly handsy- the few times he’s stepped off the stage to take a moment and breathe he wasn’t alone for a second- and at this point in the night most of the really important people were gone. He worked at Club Eden and the songs he sung, the songs the man who hired him wanted him to sing, wouldn’t particularly be of good taste to the upper echelon. They were more suited for what this party had devolved into- soldiers celebrating a promotion for the excuse of unlimited free booze and an evening off. Though, there was one important figure still here.

Garma Zabi laughs politely, though Char is too far away to hear it, and tucks away that infuriating lock of hair that he was always twirling. The youngest Zabi is well loved in Zeon and though his family was self-appointed royalty he is welcomed by the party guests with open arms and friendly drunken words. He arrived late but in style and slipped in the back door with the grace befitting a prince. And he is looking decidedly more prince-like than usual this evening (especially considering he is sober around people who have been drinking for hours) in a dark suit amid the sea of uniformed officers and their dates. He’s not wearing a tie and his collar is undone, parted slightly, and- he’ll admit it- it’s a good look, relaxed and approachable. He’s always been slight, more-so than the severe Gihren and broad Dozel and frigid Kycillia, always a bit more wide in the eyes and soft in the features, though he has the same strong jawline and chin that all the Zabis seem to have, and the tailored cut of his suit accentuates his slim figure makes him stand out from among the fighting men that he surrounds himself with. The group clustered loosely around him laugh at something he says, and he blinks those dark eyes and smiles, pleased.

Char’s next song is something slow and crooning and he lets his eyes close, draws closer to the microphone to pour sweetness into it. It gives him a moment to stop thinking, focused on breathing correctly and his enunciation rather than the eyes on him and the ever growing list of possibilities for how this night would end. A moment of stillness and quiet in his mind, time to let everything sit and simmer. He was thinking too hard- he’s been thinking too hard the entire time he’s been in this place, under the roof of his father’s killer, and its only exacerbated by the appearance of everyone’s favorite Zabi. No matter how hard Char tried his eyes couldn’t stop seeking the other out, and it makes his blood boil. It was unbelievable how easily he was ensnared by the man’s proximity, how his presence made everything seem to matter less. If it was anyone but Garma fucking Zabi it would be a masterclass in the exact sort of attention-getting that Char deployed, but that's exactly who he is- a _Zabi-_ so Char would rather die than look at him for a long period of time. And yet, he can’t stop thinking, couldn’t stop breaking his eyes away from whoever he had his mind set on and skimming over the crowd until they stopped on Garma. So he’ll keep them closed for a moment longer and compose himself. He’s not a Deikun, and here and now Garma isn’t a Zabi, in this room he was Char and last names didn’t matter, all that mattered was weaseling himself into people’s back pockets. Networking and socializing- he couldn’t catch a fly for dinner without a properly woven web. Garma was big game, a trophy hunt, much too high profile to entangle in his little net of spider’s silk and much too close to Char’s final goal.

But enough of that for now. He was singing, not thinking. He way not being payed to _think_.

He cards his hand through his hair, nails a pleasant scratch against his scalp and flutters his eyes open. Everything had to be a production, useless extra gestures to make him look more desirable and enticing. It was exhausting putting on airs constantly but it got him what he needed. As he smiles out at the audience at the smattering of applause the end of his song gets him, band seamlessly flowing from one song to another, he does a quick pass with his eyes. Who had he got with that last one, who had bit at his baited line?

 _Ah_ , he thinks, eyes making their way back to where they always did, _he apparently has Garma Zabi’s attention_.

And some attention it was. Another trait the Zabi’s shared was a certain presence, an intense and almost regal bearing that he had witnessed in Kycillia and in all of Gihren’s addresses to the public. He assumed due to Garma’s cute, almost dainty stature and the deliberate non-threatening way he presented himself in public that the Zabi’s hereditary imposing aura had skipped over him, but this was clearly not the case. Garma’s attention comes with something akin to a physical weight- much more than the normal sort of awareness that came from realizing someone was looking at you. Garma’s not even looking at him in the eyes, rather his gaze is shifted a little further down, ogling the bits of his chest and throat exposed by his half open shirt. When he begins his next song with a sickly sweet purr Garma’s eyes snap up to to meet his like he just called his name.

So, against his better judgement he does the first thing that comes to mind. He winks.

The rest of the party is irrelevant. Char has been doing this professionally for over a year, playing this game of glances and gestures and lyrics, it was all the same in the end.

He smiles behind his microphone when Garma dismisses himself from his half-assed conversation and hovers at an empty table close to the lip of the stage. Well, it was almost all the same.

_SEPTEMBER_ , _UC 0078_.

Garma Zabi was in Club Eden. It’s a Monday, the band is loud and Char has made more tips than usual tonight so he’s feeling rather good about himself. So he does the obvious thing to do after Garma sits and stares at him for hours, tucked away in his booth along the side wall: he goes to make fun of him.

“Any requests, Your Excellency?” He drawls, idly swirling his drink, letting the ice clink against the sides of the glass.

“Huh?” Garma chokes. Char smiles at him, just barely. This was the first time they spoke and already the Zabi had given him such a lovely first impression.

“I asked you if you had any requests.” He repeats, voice just audible above the moan of the saxophone and thrum of the dueling piano and bass behind them. It gives him the excuse to duck in a bit closer, which makes his uninvited guest’s eyes dart around in something too embarrassed to be pure panic.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Garma says slowly, and sips his drink. It’s the weakest beer on tap, he notices in vague amusement.

“Mm.” Char acquiesces, and turns, away from the wide eyes of Zeon’s sweetheart and towards the table of soldiers who he knows will deal him into a quick card game or two before his next song, “Well, I’ll sing something for you anyways.” And that’s that. Let him know he’s been seen, let him know Char is intrigued, let him think that Char holds him in esteem, is thinking of him, but wont push.

And then he’s pleasantly surprised.

“T-There’s no need for that.” Garma calls. When Char glances back Garma is staunchly avoiding his gaze, head tucked down and eyes undoubtedly melting holes in the bottom of his glass.

“Hm?” Char turns, facing the man fully. That gets him a glance, quick but oh so damning. “And why not?”

“I just wanted to hear the one.” He lies, and his eyes glance at him and stay. Char can almost see the poor man’s thoughts play out behind his eyes, reminding him that to lie properly you should probably meet the eyes of the man you’re lying to. It would almost be endearing, if Char wasn’t sick to his stomach looking at the bastard. “The tune was stuck in my head since the-.“ and he trails off when Char tilts his head slightly, listening.

“Since the party?” Char finishes for him. Garma hums once, and then sips at his drink, swallowing greedily.

“Since the party.” He confirms.

“But you’ve been here the whole night.” Char says, faux-kindly, smiling slyly, and watches Garma’s face do something wonderfully complex, somehow blanching and flushing at the same time through a grimace that is somehow still polite.

“I-.“ Char doesn’t let him finish the thought.

“Surely you got what you came for hours ago.” He flashes his teeth in his next smile, patient. “So you must have something else you want, Your Highness.”

“Something else I want.” Garma echoes. “I-.” And he pauses. “I just wanted to get away for a moment.” Char tilts his head again, leaning his cheek against his waiting palm. He’ll let the princeling get away with that one.

“Don’t we all.” He murmurs. The band is wrapping up their tune, only a song or two left until they’ll be wanting him back up on the microphone. Artesia glances at him from her seat on the piano, eyes hard. “But I’m flattered you’ve thought of me, I’m sure there’s better things for a Zabi to be thinking of than a no-name club singer.” And before Garma can say anything else he offers again,

“Let me sing something for you, Your Majesty.”

“Please stop calling me that.” Garma pleads, voice low, cheeks a delicate rose color.

“I will if you let me sing for you.” He barters.

“Why do you want to?” Char pauses. Why does he want to? To trap Garma here longer, sure, to lure him in the best way he knows how, the way Crowley taught him, but his efforts didn’t have to be achieved this way at all. He couldn’t do anything to Garma, not here, not when he surely was expected back home; it was the wrong place, wrong time, but Char couldn’t seem to let go. He smelled blood in the water, raw, and he couldn’t seem to shake the need to sink his hooks into Garma and pull and rend and tear. A long con would be amusing, he thinks vaguely, satisfying to pull all the sweetness he could from this pathetic insect of a man before he crushed him beneath his heel, but it was risky. Risky for Casval himself, risky for Artesia, risky for his mother.

“Does there need to be any reason?” He says simply.

“When you’re this insistent, yes.” Garma sets his glass down, still half full. “What do you want from me, Char Aznable?”

“You’re an attractive man, Your Excellency.” Char finds himself saying, “Why wouldn’t I want your attention?” He sets down his own glass, and uncrosses his legs. “And the shoe is on the wrong foot, I think. Garma Zabi, who is ‘here to get away’, who has had my song stuck in his head for weeks, who has sat at this table for hours and only ordered one drink; what do you want from me?” He smiles, “If not a song, then what else?” And the implication is damning, palpable between them, but Char already has swung his legs around and out of the booth and stood.

“Deal me in!” He calls over the din of the band and patrons to the gamblers, and then glances over his shoulder at Garma, who still has his gaze fixed on him.

“Do you prefer a slower song or a faster one?”

And Garma licks his lips and swallows before saying, “Slow, please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He hums, and flees to his awaiting seat at the card table. He plays, some hands good, others decent and others bad, but he doesn’t care. His mind is on other things, like how Garma’s eyes are still on him, roving over the planes of his back. His posture is perfect, as always, but it almost makes him want to sit straighter. Garma Zabi was here in Club Eden, and had been since the start of Char’s set. He came here specifically to see Char, or hear him sing at least, after weeks of no contact. He was embarrassed of it, but still maintained a relatively smooth conversation with him. And he hadn’t bailed the moment Char had moved on after confronting him, he was still there, nursing the same beer had had been and watching him with dark eyes. Waiting for his song perhaps. And what had Char given away? That he knows who he is, but that was nothing; every spacenoid knew the Zabis. He knows Garma Zabi and despite the two of them not speaking there, he had noticed that Garma had been at the party he sung at, and that meant Garma knew that he was on Char’s radar, or at least that he had Char’s attention. He has revealed that he’s not intimidated by Garma’s status. ‘You’re an attractive man, You Excellency’ he had said, a mere parrot of the girls who haunted the booths of Club Eden, but was that the angle he was going to play? Could he trust himself to bide his time and ignore the way his flesh crawls when he sees purple enough to weasel his way under Garma’s skin. Would that be the path of least resistance? But there was danger clear on this path. Bringing a Zabi close would mean giving them advantages to see through him as well, to see through any of the many things that were fabricated and false about Char and pierce through to Casval.

But Garma was right there. His ticket in, it was right there.

He just had to win it.

“That’s all for me.” Char says, and he was close enough to even that he just slid the few hundred hytes that he had won over into the center pot. “Go buy yourselves another round or something.”

“Sing us a song,” one of the soldiers laughs, taking his new hand from the dealer, “something I can take all their money to.”

“I’m singing for someone else at the moment.” He deflects, “but I’ll see what I can do, Petty Officer.” Garma still watches him as he makes his way to the stage, as he adjusts his mic, as he is pulled in close by Artesia.

“Are you fucking crazy.” She hisses, and Casval blinks.

“I haven’t done anything yet.” But she’s not listening.

“You’re going to get us all killed.” Her eyes are wide and angry. She really needs to work on her temper.

“I haven’t done anything yet!” And Artesia tsks.

“But you will.”

“I’m not going to take him into the alley or something.” He insists, “I have patience.”

“We’ll talk about this later.” She promises, and Casval nods,

“We will.” And she seems soothed at least by this agreement.

“What are we playing?” Artesia asks.

“Done with your spat, then?” The upright bass player hums, picking his strings lightly and adjusting their tune. They’re all waiting for the duo on stage to finish, then they can play for the next forty-five and leave just after midnight.

“Last set. What’s the move?” The drummer asks.

“I want to end on something slow.” And one of the horn players laughs, loud and gaudy enough to be heard easily over the music.

“Biting yourself off more than you can chew with that one.” He warns, but Casval gets an encouraging slap on the back. “Ballsy, kid, ballsy.”

Char grins a sharks grin and says, “He’s gagging for it. I won’t have to do much of anything at all.”

Artesia scowls and says nothing.

When they take the stage its to cheers- the crowd has been here for ages and drunken their weight in liquor so anything could make them get rowdy, but Char was a welcome regular act with a small devoted fanbase. The pretty boy lounge singer with the blue eyes and the hard right hook, it was easy to sell after all, especially when he had the chops to back it up. He gestures and the band comes in swinging, music hitting him right in the chest. He avoids Garma’s gaze, serenading all sorts of imagined lovers, and only lets their eyes meet on his terms: the last song of the night. He let the band choose between a few options and they’ve chosen something soft and sensual that explodes outward near the middle to end as something more rowdy. It was fun to listen to and fun to play because of the little bits that come together to form a beautiful whole, like all jazz was prone to do, and though it changed tempos at the end it was undoubtedly the slow song that had been requested of him. Garma jolts when their eyes finally connect, and seemingly puts it together that this song was for him from the tempo change and the look on Char's face. It’s amusing, watching him slowly but surely fall under his sway- so fast and so thorough it's almost like hypnotism. The way that his words and his motions make him flush and squirm is frankly adorable, but he admits, some of the looks and reactions he was getting from Garma were appropriate: the song was filthy, Char singing it even more so for the hell of it. It gets him jeers and whoops from the drunks up front, gets people dancing in a way that would get them tossed out of any club besides this one, maybe even this one if it wasn’t his last song, and it might have been horribly sexual, but it was also incredibly earnest in the open affection that the speaker had for the lover they were singing of.

It was a good song. Maybe more forward than Char would’ve chosen for his purposes, but he can put on a show that leaves them wanting more.

The set ends with the horn section going wild as he holds a long sustained note, show-stopping as he asked them for, and when he bows low to the audience the band starts improving an idle tune to play him out to. Giving him a good song _and_ a convenient escape out the backdoor from their uninvited guest, how thoughtful.

“Thank you!” He says, and their crowd cheers, wolf whistles and rowdy drunken shouts raining down on them. If anything, despite this being the ending of the show, it makes the band play harder. “That’s all the music we’ve got for tonight, tip the fucking bartender on your way out.” The crowd laughs, and the familiar man behind the bar gives a half-assed salute at Char’s normal sign off. But he deviates slightly today, curling his fingers around the mic. “Whenever you want another one,” he leers, and he smiles at one man in particular, who is flushed red but meeting his gaze head on, “you know where to find me.” Then he gestures with the last beats of the drums and yells triumphantly: “ _GOODNIGHT_!”

And the horns swell one last time, and Club Eden falls silent.

Garma does find him. He finds him on Tuesday and on Wednesday and when he returns to work on Friday the bartender tells him he was here on his day off too, waiting for the performance that never came.

“Pitiful, isn’t it?” He says, and Garma jolts, wheeling around to look at Char over his shoulder. He does the poor man a favor and comes and sits in the booth seat opposite him. He’s brought two glasses with him, one for him and one for his stalker. The Zabi always orders the weak cheap shit, and it was starting to make Char's teeth hurt. And despite the amount of days Garma has been in attendance, this is only the second time that the two of them have spoken, they haven’t interacted much besides the occasional wave or wink on Char's part, so coming to sit with him was a deliberate playing of his hand. Or maybe just the alcohol talking- he hadn’t been shy in accepting drink offers from flirtatious patrons tonight.

“What is pitiful?” The Zabi asks, and Char gestures to the half empty glass on the table.

“The beer.” He lies, and slides one of the drinks over. Garma eyes it with suspicion.

“This is exactly how people end up dead in a ditch, you know?” He says pointedly.

“You think I have time to drug and murder you? I don’t have another day off until Tuesday.” And he sips at his own drink. It’s pleasantly strong and burns just right in the center of his chest on the way down. “You don’t have to drink it, I was just offering.” Besides, lacing a drink was just sloppy. Anything that would leave zero traces in the bloodstream is something that he didn’t have on hand. He was vengeful, yes, maybe even bloodthirsty, but even he knew not to leave evidence.

Something to consider for the future, he supposes.

“Where do you go?” Garma asks him, “After your shows, I mean.”

“Unsubtle attempt at trying to find out where I live, your Highness.” Garma flushes an only semi-guilty red. “I go home. My shifts are long and demanding, and I like to sleep in.” He tips his head to the side, knows it makes his curls bounce and makes the light catch on the long pale line of his bared neck. “Why? Did you want me to go somewhere else?” He hums indulgently, and takes another drink. “Home with you, maybe?”

“You’re bold when you’re drunk, Char.” But he doesn’t deny it.

“I’m tipsy at best.” He says, shrugging, and leans back against the shitty faux leather. “And I’m hardly the boldest one here.”

“Say what you mean.” And Char leers over his glass at Garma’s pointed look.

“I’m pretty sure that princes don’t typically frequent bars, especially not in this part of town. That’s what I mean.” Garma glances away, and Char grins. Like a rat in a trap. “Wanted to get away again?” Garma’s excuse last time they met was flimsy then, it’s _nothing_ now. To use it again would be practically suicide, would admit that Garma was here for a reason other than the pitiful excuses he made. It would mean that Char wins, and he could tell but the look of him that Garma was a man who hated losing.

“Oh? Just enjoying the nightlife then?” He suggests and Garma grimaces.

“I don’t care for ‘nightlife’.” That was apparent by the way Garma flinched from the crowds, but Char smiles sweetly and tries again.

“The drinks then?” And glances down at the glasses between them. Char had nearly drained the one he brought over already, and Garma was still working on the drink he was served hours ago, at the top of Char’s set. “Or maybe not.”

“Char-.” Garma tries, but Char cuts him off. He’s having far too much fun at the man’s expense and the night was close to over already. He could afford to play it a little fast and loose.

“Just in the neighborhood?” And Garma drains the last of his glass. Ooh, touchy tonight.

“I’m here for you.” He admits, with little fanfare other than that dramatic shot of liquid courage. The count was 2-0 Char, if he kept this up he would have Garma eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the month. He says nothing, simply smiling a barely there smile and watching Garma crumble under his steady gaze. The band is extra into it tonight, and the crowd is eating it up, the only oasis in the chaos of Eden seemed to be this booth here, where the two of them sit, Char relaxed and Garma tense. Eventually, when the blonde does nothing with the admittance, the other relaxes too, slowly but surely. Char watches his shoulders smooth and his back move from perfect poise into something that looks almost like a way a normal person would sit. He watches, and thinks.

Char said it last time, more as a joke than anything serious, but he really was unfortunately handsome. The hair was gaudy, sure, but there were worse shades of purple, and it fell so nicely and looked soft and shiny. There was nothing about the man that was ugly, really, besides the last name but that was just an unfortunate circumstance of his birth. Oh, and of course Garma's personality was rather ugly as well, but for that criticism to have any real weight it would have to come from someone else besides the man who had a personality even worse. At some point he must realize that Char is looking at him just as hard as he is looking at Char, because he preens under the attention, looking extremely pleased with himself.

Damn, he really was a little drunker than he intended to get while at work.

“That’s my cue.” Char says as soon as he sees Garma is about to speak, and points to the stage where they absolutely don't need him back yet. He stands, and raps his knuckles against the table. When Garma looks up at him, disappointed at his leaving but curious, he smiles. “I like you bold. Stay that way.” And he lets his hand roam slightly when he pulls away, settling on Garma’s shoulder as he passes, feather-light and blink-and-you-miss-it quick.

Char sings for Garma the whole last part of the night. He sneaks out the back again and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

A week later he has another scheduled event. Ever since his show at the officer's promotion celebration he’s gained a bit more traction, it wasn’t just Garma who noticed him after all. There were plenty of people with deep pockets and an eye for sparkly things at that party. He is his own management, it’s not like he can really trust people when his entire identity is falsified, so he’s watched the calls roll in with satisfaction and moved things around in his schedule accordingly. This one, however, was called in just a few nights ago, and was different than all the others. Artesia drives him to the address, and looks up at the Zabi Estate with trepidation.

“You’re sure about this?” She asks, and it hardly sounds like a question the way she says it.

“I’m sure.” And she nods but she grabs his hand and squeezes, once. He climbs from the car, and only starts moving towards the building once his sister is gone.

“I’m Char Aznable.” He says to the posted guard at the door, out of lack of anything else to say to explain why he was here. “Garma sent for me.” He is invited in without question.

The door opens for him, and he sees the interior of his childhood home for the first time in ten years. He doesn't really know what he expected, but it’s completely and utterly alien to him. Unlike the hall where he sang before there is nothing that makes him remember, nothing that his eyes catch on and stutter over. Maybe it’s simply because it’s under new ownership, maybe it’s because he wasn’t often in the public part of the manor as a child, and maybe because the current building he was in was just additions wrapped around the old floor plan, it wouldn't look like it did 10 years ago. Maybe it’s because it’s been a decade, or maybe it’s because he was now a completely different height ands looking at things from a new perspective. There are many reasons that could contribute to unfamiliarity, but it’s all meaningless in the end because they’re still moving, his escort leading him to his soon-to-be concert venue. He was promised a piano would be provided, and he’s hoping it’s at least in tune, but who’s to say in this bizarre scenario. He’s led down a hallway that he can’t tell if he knows or is just vaguely familiar in the way that all hallways were, and then his guide pauses before a door- presumably his destination. The man knocks twice, and then opens the door for him.

Char's late father had many studies. One in their own private wing attached to what they used as a living room, a small one tucked next to the archive of records, and this one in the public section of the manor. It was the one that he met with people in, the one that didn’t have any sensitive information in, and the one that in Char’s childhood opinion he used the least. He recognizes it on sight, even though now it had been turned into a sitting room. It had been stripped of all its bookshelves and of the hulking desk in the center and had been redecorated but it was unmistakable, the light shone in through the wide window in a way he didn't quite realize he could be nostalgic for and hit him so hard that he could almost _smell_ the books that used to be here. His host stands when he enters the room, and Char doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes or be begrudgingly impressed. He’s fit both a grand piano in the room and a long stately table piled with a feast that could probably sevre ten. There’s only a single pair of chairs and an unnecessary amount of lit candles, so he assumes it was supposed to be a romantic candle-lit dinner for two.

“You said you liked me bold.” Garma says, and smiles. It’s smug and awful, and there’s not alcohol in him to make him admit that he finds the man the least bit attractive, so all he sees is the garish uniform he’s wearing and the ugly self-satisfied twist to his lips.

“I did.” He sits at the piano bench instead of at the chair that is clearly meant for him, and plays a plodding little warm up.

“Please,” Garma offers, “sit and eat with me.”

“You paid for me to play.” He says, and lets his hands fall on the keys like a reprimand, “I’m going to.”

“By all means.” His host indulges, and sits. He’s quick to bend, Garma Zabi, quick to squirm and allow things under the guise of being magnanimous, and he does a good job at passing it off that way. Only if you were someone like Char, who was upsetting his balance on purpose, could you really tell how unsteady the man stood.

“Thank you.” He allows himself to say, and turns before he can see the worm preen under his attentions again. He had a job to do, after all.

So he sings, and tries not to feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. The club was very much his territory. It was loud, public, Garma was clearly out of place, and Char was at home there. Here, where it was private and quiet and the air was too heavy, was firmly under Garma’s control. He knows it and Garma knows it, so he lets his words fall low and sweet, a different pace for a different setting. His songs are soft and contemplative instead of bouncy and raunchy, ones that show off his voice and a few purely instrumental pieces that linger somewhere between classical and jazz. His audience clearly likes it, because despite his earlier protest he makes no second move to stop him, content to listen. He’s played for small audiences but those small audiences weren’t a single person and usually he has a stage, something to provide a degree of separation. But here he’s tableside to Garma’s goddamn dinner with no band to hide anything behind- if anything is going to turn out good- and it’s going to turn out good, he’s Char fucking Aznable- he’s actually got to put an earnest effort into it.

Putting effort into pleasing Garma Zabi. It makes his skin crawl.

“This is a bit overkill, isn’t it?” He says after a good long while, after he cant take the attention anymore, playing an idle tune with one hand and gesturing at the dinner and the room with the other. Garma looks at him from his seat at the head of the table with smiling eyes.

“You’re getting paid, aren’t you?” Garma gestures with his glass. From this distance Char can’t tell if it’s water or alcohol. “Come on, one more. Make me feel something.” His mind keeps getting stuck on the fact that the room they are in used to be his father’s study. Char can see the notch on the doorframe where his father struck it with the frame of an antique globe on accident, can see the lifted edge of the carpet in the corner that used to be purposefully weighed down with a ficus so his mother wouldn’t see. Garma sips his drink, and Char hopes he chokes.

“Of course, Your Highness.” It’s infuriating, the piano was turned so he can still see Garma out of the corner of his eye even while he’s watching the keys, but he’s not paying attention to that. He’s paying attention to how much smaller this familiar room is now that he’s grown, focused on the way that the walls have been painted but the trim is the same shade of eggshell white that his parents argued over for hours. This was his home, past-tense, and yet still is; down to it’s marrow it still calls him. So puts his second hand to the keys again, and then sings a song. He sings to the settling of the boards beneath his feet and sings to the toy soldiers that he and Artesia buried in the garden, he sings for the chandelier with the one bulb socket with the misfired electric that never lit and sings for the burn in the carpet of the master bedroom from where his father dropped a lit candle when his mother announced that she was pregnant with Artesia. He sings his grief to the rafters, wails his yearning for a time past and lets the piano accompany his sorrow. It’s not his best, he knows he could hold that note longer, that the control of his register is getting smothered by the desperation he feels, but at the same time it’s the best he’s ever felt while singing. He doesn’t realize he’s stood and is practically bowed over the piano until his shoulders begin to complain, but he just pushes that thought aside and breathes through a verse that is more raw than he intends. The wall is just barely discolored over Garma’s head outlining a painting that has since been no doubt burned. He wishes he could weep, but those tears are long since shed. He'll simply have to make Garma cry in his stead.

When he finishes Garma claps, clearly delighted. After Char straightens from a showy bow, he watches Garma pour a second glass from a bottle on the table, and gesture towards him; an offering. Char passes that second chair again- he sits himself on top of the table, right next to Garma’s place setting, right within grabbing distance. He crosses his legs, coy, and smiles innocently at Garma’s dry look. Dry, but not unaffected. Char sits and locks eyes with Garma Zabi and lets everything fall away- doesn't feel anything anymore. He can't afford to feel anything, not with Garma's bicep lightly resting against his knee.

“There’s chairs you know.” Garma hands him the glass he poured. He had been drinking something pale earlier, but this now was a deep red wine, one that Char can smell even from where he sits. He knew jackshit about wine, but he could tell this was fancy.

“Yeah,” and he takes a taste. It’s even better than it smells, a lot subtler which he’s thankful for, and he spares a glance at the label on the bottle curiously, “but we’ve been so far apart all night. I figured you’d like it better if I sat close.”

“Oh, _I’d_ like it?” He’s taken Char’s request for boldness to heart, and it makes Char grin at him, a little more honestly than he’s smiled at him before.

“Yes, you clearly do.” They talk like this for a while, Char teasing and Garma handing him little portions of food on a saucer that was probably originally for one of the unused tea cups on the table when he notices that Char has no intention of sitting in his own seat and eating. It’s all rather good, as cold as it is, and his host is attentive, he’s hardly set his empty glass down for a moment before Garma is filling it for him.

He sets the bottle down after his latest pour, and his now free hand comes to rest idly on Char’s leg. Too high to be knee, too low to be thigh. A clear signal. _Bold_.

“Your Majesty-.” He tries, but is shut down:

“Garma.”

“The Most High And Honorable Garma Zabi,” He corrects, and lets their fingers brush as he grabs the glass from his host. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“Then what kind of man are you, Char?” Garma asks, not perturbed in the slightest. So he expected to be turned down today, very interesting. And very self-aware.

Hm.

So he takes a long drink of his wine, watching Garma as he watches him, and plots.

“That’s a very loaded question.” He muses, swirling his drink idly. And while Garma’s districted by the movement he leans forward and curls his fingers under the man’s chin, directing him to look back at him with a tilt of his wrist. Garma’s eyes are wide, doe-like in their wonder and it makes him want to make him…make him do _something_.

Maybe Char would get more out of this arrangement than he initially planned.

His thumb rests on Garma’s chin, and he pets it over the smooth skin he finds there, nail just catching the edge of his lower lip like a reward. “What kind of man am I?” He repeats Garma’s question, and just for the hell of it, tips Garma’s head at more of an angle. There is little resistance beneath his hand, and as Char effectively bares Garma’s throat to him the man’s lips part in a shaky breath that he rewards with a more adventurous pass of his thumb. He sets his glass down.

“I’m the kind of man that doesn’t put out on the first date.” He murmurs, giving in to the urge to lean in a little closer, and oh, Garma wants to kiss him so bad he's practically begging for it. Garma grins, hazy with something like satisfaction, and it would be oh so easy to do something like slide into his lap and make him squirm and tease more pretty faces out of him, but the man is already moving, his hand coming to weakly grab at Char’s wrist. Char's thigh almost misses the warmth of his palm.

“So you agree this is a date?” Garma speaking dislodges Char’s grip on his chin, and when he moves his hand to cup the man’s cheek the grip around his wrist tightens, and Garma turns his head in and presses a worshipful kiss to his palm. It’s very bold, stupidly bold. Char can feel his net tightening, and surely Garma can too, but the poor sap throws himself headlong into Char’s grasp with no ounce of self preservation. He’s doing half of Char’s work for him. Char can respect that, a relationship was supposed to be balanced after all, but he can also pity the naive idiot.

“There was candlelight,” he lists thoughtfully and there’s another kiss, landing heavy on the heel of his hand. “Music.” Garma’s lips drag over the pulse point in his wrist. “Wine.” Their fingers thread together. “Am I mistaking obvious signals, your Lordship?”

“No one has been a proper lord in a hundred years,” Garma grumbles against the bared skin of his forearm, “You’re just doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Mm.” He agrees pleasantly, and tugs on their joint hands until Garma looks up at him.

“Do you have the time?” He asks him, and for a moment Garma’s heated look falters.

“Um.” His eyes dart away briefly, “Just past nine. Why?”

“You only payed for three hours of entertainment.” He grins, “Our time together is up.”

“Char Aznable.” Garma growls and it makes Char’s smile just that more genuine. He tugs on their clasped hands again, and presses his own kiss to the back of Garma’s hand, soft and slow with the press of his lips so he know Garma has to sit and stew in the feeling. To Char, it feels like fealty and he hates it. But there’s definite appeal in the dazed look on Garma’s face.

“Until we meet again, your Highness.” And that marks the end of their sortie.

“What about the second date?” Garma calls as Char turns to walk away. He had been frozen in shock as Char had dropped his hand and slid off the table, but now it seemed like he was coming back to himself. He was too cute, it was almost pitiful.

“What about it?” Char asks and Garma is up like a shot and trots after him like an overeager puppy as he crosses to the piano to collect his previously discarded jacket.

“You said you don’t put out after the first.” He says, and takes Char’s jacket from him and holds it out so all he has to do is turn and slip his arms inside. A true gentleman, in actions but not in words. “What about the second, then?”

He turns, presses a kiss to Garma’s cheek, and whispers, “Persuade me.”

Later, he strips mechanically, clothes dropped to the floor of the bathroom with thumps that ring loud in the oppressive silence of Char’s apartment. His skin tingles where Garma touched him, heedless of the hours gone by, even after he’s been back to work, even after he let the usual crowd get a little too handsy with him. The shower hisses to life with a tug of the handle and he turns it as hot as he can stand. His eyes catch his own in the mirror and after a horribly raw moment with his own reflection that felt too significant and insignificant at the same time he steps over the lip of the bath. Under the spray of the shower head he scrubs his arms raw, digging his blunt fingernails into his palm and dragging like he can peel a layer of his skin off and rid himself of the ghost of Garma’s lips. He’s overreacting, there’s nothing there to wash away and he’s the one who goaded himself into this situation in the first place, but it keeps playing in his mind over and over.

He supposes that’s what he deserves for having an overactive imagination.

After his shower the night drags on, and he falls asleep to particularly purple thoughts.

“This doesn’t count as the second date you know.” He says when he sees Garma the very next night. “I’m working.”

“I know that!” Garma huffs, but he looks particularly embarrassed. And he gestures at the stage behind him, where the band is starting up without him. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something right now?”

“Fine, fine.” He sighs. This song had a longer instrumental intro, so he could spare a few more moments getting Garma settled right where he wanted him. “Tell the bartender that you want something actually good to drink tonight and that I’m paying.”

“Char-.”

“Don’t argue with me, I’m good at it.” And for good measure he tugs the hair tie off his wrist and gathers his hair into a ponytail as a distraction. Clients liked his hair, inordinately fascinated by the movement of it, so Char had grown it out longer than he preferred. He couldn’t braid it or anything, but it was long enough that any tail he put his hair in was fluffy and bouncy rather than half assed and scraggly. He would rather wear it short for conveniences sake, but wearing it in different styles was an unexpected plus of having it longer. That, and the stares.

“Okay.” Garma says dumbly, giving him one of those rewarding stares right now. He’s so cute, like a little puppy, and Char reaches out and cups his cheeks between his hands. His skin was so soft, squishy, and when he pets his thumb over the line of his cheekbone a vibrant flush follows, like he’s painting it there.

“See you.” He cues, and Garma blinks hazily at him.

“Uh-huh.” He agrees, clearly more focused on how close Char’s lips were rather than what those lips were saying. He’s practically drooling for it, its as endearing as it is pathetic, but that was Char’s every experience with Garma to a tee. So he smiles and leans in quickly and plants one on him, a brief brush of his lips as a reward for being so compliant and malleable under his hands. When he pulls away Garma chirps out an embarrassed noise and flees down into his usual booth.

“Where’s mine?” One of his regulars heckles from behind him. Char turns and on his way back to the stage detours to lean over the woman’s table and kiss her, it was only fair. He lingers longer than he did with Garma, giving her a proper one, and only pulls away when she starts getting over her surprise and starts trying to take the lead and the hoots and hollers from other patrons start getting annoying. Her lipstick is tacky, and he can feel the bright red drying on his own mouth.

“You’re lucky red is my favorite color.” He tells her as she fans herself idly with a hand. Garma is staring, fingers gently pressed against his bottom lip, and Char grins at him when he steps behind the mic. Hopefully lipstick doesn’t get on his teeth.

His break between sets in monopolized by various other regulars and newbies that feel were feeling lucky trying to get their own kiss, all of which are unsuccessful. He’s not able to sneak away back to Garma’s booth, nor does he really want to, content with letting people touch him while in the Zabi’s direct line of sight, letting a courageous hand that settles on his ass stay when it usually would be dodged and letting people tuck him under their arms and herd him from table to table. He gets a few free drinks out of it, dodges one that was definitely spiked, takes an intimidating wad of cash from an older gentleman in exchange for nothing more than a promise to wear the expensive earrings he shoves into his hands. It’s nice to let ordinary people fawn over him, relaxing to play a game with stakes less high than what he had found himself wrapped up in. Back behind the mic it’s much the same as usual, and there’s more people to charm, women to compliment and men to praise after everything wraps up for the night. He dances around invitations out, uses his silver tongue to talk circles around offers of sex, manages to leave each iteration with money offered with the money in his hands with no strings attached. When he finally meanders to Garma’s booth there’s actually a few empty glasses on the table, a fourth sitting half-empty. He yawns when Char greets him and doesn’t argue when Char suggests that it’s time that he leave. Either he had left the poor sap waiting too long or he was a sleepy drunk.

“See you Tuesday?” He asks, and Garma’s hand snaps out and closes around his wrist like he was afraid that Char was going to get up and leave right this second.

“No!” It’s almost frantic, the way Garma says it. He’d blame it on the drinks, but he seems unbothered other than the tired slump of his shoulders.

“No?” Char raises his eyebrows.

“I mean- er- yes! Yes, I’ll be here Tuesday, but…” and he squirms. “But I’d like to see you some other time, as well.”  
“Hm?” Was the hand shackled around him really about keeping him from getting up, or was this about all the touches he had allowed tonight? That was a hypothesis to test another time.

“You know.” And Garma’s fingers tap an anxious beat against the bone of his wrist. “Like before?” Garma was the third to ask him out tonight, and the saying was 'third times the charm'. He might as well give.

“You know how to book me.” He says, and Garma flushes that lovely pink again, and squeezes his wrist once like a reprimand.

“You’re impossible, you know?” Char makes another little hum of ascent.

“I’ve been told that once or twice.” His smile is met with a pout, but there’s a nervous little twist to it. Cute, cute, cute. Where was the Garma that he saw yesterday, the one who poured his wine with a steady hand and practically hand-fed him like he was a spoiled family pet, who got very familiar with his thigh? Where was the boldness?

“Let me take you out to dinner.” Garma proposes. There is _some_ of the bold, of the steel, but it's buried under nerves. He wasn't quite sure if digging it out was a good idea. Garma uses his free hand to twirl his hair. “I know our first date was a little unorthodox, and maybe not even a real date, but-.”

“I’d love to.” Char chuckles when his guest’s mouth closes with an audible snap.

“Really?” Char leans in again and brushes their lips together again, barely anything but not nothing.

“Do I look like someone who does what they don’t want to do?”

Garma looks smittenly at him, “No.” he says like it was something he found particularly attractive. God, Char was getting good at this.

“I’m free this coming Friday.” And he points a finger on his free hand accusingly. “And I don’t want to see you before then. You’re here too often. Don’t you have things you should be doing?”

“No.” Garma lies badly. And he folds easily under Char’s gaze, as usual. “Fine. Tuesday and then I’ll stay away until Friday.”

“You’re pushing it.” And Garma beams at him, kind smile spoiled by the too aware look in his eye.

“You’re letting me get away with it.” And he squeezes his hand once before letting go of the grip anchoring him down.

“Finish your drink, lightweight.” Char chides, and stands.

“Goodnight, Char.” Garma says, and drinks.

“Goodnight, Garma.” He says, and leaves through the front door. It’s the first time he calls Garma by his name, and Garma is the only one who notices.

Casval’s money situation is tight. He lives in a single bedroom apartment close enough to Club Eden to walk to and from work. He performs and entertains for six hours a night five nights a week on paper and in addition to this he bartends a few hours before on occasion, closes down the club on days that his sets start later, stays as late as the people demand. His take home pay, plus tips, plus failed bribes from customers should be more than enough, but most of his money is spent on taking care of his mother and sister. After years of trying he had finally gotten her away from her forced seclusion with a few pointed bribes from himself and the Ral family. She was free to go as long as she stayed out of the public eye, the Zabi family less worried about the old mistress of their assassinated leader than they were with the looming threat of the Earth Federation. Ramba Ral set her up with a lovely house in the better part of town, secluded but free to come and go with care. Char was the one who paid for her to live in it, for her groceries, for her clothes and entertainment and utility bills. It was all he could do, after all. Her freedom was a conditional one, she was still partially under surveillance so interaction between the two of them was strange and fleeting.

Even worse than this was his sister Artesia. She had run away to Zeon after him, after Edouard Mass’ tragic ‘death’, after Char Aznable’s flight had been delayed and admittance to the Federation’s military academy revoked. They weren’t sure if her absence has been noticed- she claimed to have made a very loud public scene before running away that supported her cover story of locking herself away out of grief, but Casval kept her at a distance. His own cover was borderline, and it ached terribly to keep away, but he would rather never see them and eat a little less than he probably should if it guaranteed they were alive and taken care of. Artesia hated it, she frequented Club Eden and their mothers house in secret, but she had no false identity like Char and no identification so she was at the mercy of his care and his wallet. He pays three rents, food for three, and has to keep up his appearance as posh and elegant and sophisticated, so yes, his budget is a stretched a bit thin. Which is why he finds himself in positions like this one more often than not.

“What did I say about playing rough?” He asks, crossing his arms. At his feet a kitten sits, looking up at him with big kitten eyes that aren’t apologetic in the slightest. At both of their feet (or paws) is stuffing, ripped from the mangled cat toy half shoved under his desk. The cat is as adorable as he is a horrible roommate, creamy white with bright eyes and his limbs and face tapering into a soft grey, but Char scooped him up off the streets and it shows in the way he behaves. Zack- the only name he could think of after a whole day of thinking- meows, and puts his little paws on Casval’s socked foot. It’s nice having a cat, it was someone to talk to and someone waiting for him when he came back from work and he kept Char’s mouse problem under control. He stoops, pressing an obliging smooch to the top of Zack’s soft head when the kitten sticks his face up close to Char’s, and sweeps up all the loose fluff and dumps it on his desk. It functioned more like a vanity really, desk and a large ornate mirror hung on the wall behind it separate pieces but working to the same purpose. His little sewing kit is already out from when he was using it to fix a ripped seam in the lining of one of his blazers. Sewing was something he had picked up gradually since he didn’t really have the money to replace something if he wore a hole through, and he’s gotten decent enough that he knew how to hide his sloppy stitch work on anything that he had to wear in public. Luckily, this plush rat was something that he didn’t have to work too hard on to make look neat. He shoots a loose hair tie out into the living room, Zack bounding after it, and gets to work now that the little monster was distracted.

A video call buzzes through the line, and he distractedly accepts. No one knows his video address other than people he trusts implicitly, so he didn’t need to see the caller ID. He hears the video window open up on the surface of the mirror, and makes his first stitch, cat toy re-stuffed with it’s filling.

“What’s this I hear about you and a Zabi?” Crowley says instead of hello. Christ, it was like having a second mother.

“Lovely to see you too.” Char says conversationally, not looking up from his mending. “I’m doing fine, thanks for asking.”

“Cassie, sweetie, what the fuck are you doing?”

“You sound like Artesia.” He glances up at the screen. Crowley is eating breakfast, or at least drinking coffee, in what looks like officer quarters on a ship of some kind. “And please, stop calling me that.”

“Well, your sister is usually right.” She ignores his comment about the stupid nickname. “You should listen to her for once in your sorry life.”

“Hm.” He dismisses, and he doesn’t have to be looking to know the exact expression Crowley is making.

“I don’t think I need to explain how bad of an idea this is.”

“You’re going to anyways.” He cues and her voice rises to meet his, crackling over their connection.

“But I’m going to chew you out anyways!!” She agrees. Char finishes a line of stitches. Zack watches impatiently from the floor. “You are aware that this is basically putting everything that you’ve ever done in danger, right?”

“Please, it’s not that bad.”

“It is! You’re putting your mother, your sister, _and yourself_ in jeopardy. You realize that if you hang around people that are too high status they’re going to run background checks.” She gestures wildly and barely saves her coffee from tipping, but with the practiced way she catches the mug it seems that it is a regular occurrence. “You’re not going to come up clean.”

“My alibi is fine.” He tosses the hair tie for Zack again, and when he looks back at the screen Crowley is glaring at him.

“This is _it_ , Char. You are spending your second chance on this scheme.” The accusation is a serious one, but correct. There was no way of taking what he was doing back, no way of erasing memories for Garma's head. He had stolen this identity and built a life here. This was his one second chance. He'd already kissed him, he'd say it's a little too late for a heads-up.

“I’m aware.” He answers. 

“So you have a plan?” She asks and he must take a moment too long to respond or some of his indecision must read on his face because she explodes. “What is your _problem_!? This isn’t something you should be taking lightly!”

He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts hm off with another coffee-upsetting motion.

“No! You listen to me, Casval. If you were going to go goddamn insane then why were you so insistent on me teaching you to sing so you could stay on Munzo? Why did you fight so hard to free your mom and to keep your sister out of sight?” She pokes the camera, fuming. “You thought with your heart instead of your head- you can’t kill Garma Zabi like this.”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” He finally snaps.

“Is this revenge?” She asks, blunt. “Is this the path you want to take?” A Char's glower she reconsiders her position, he can see the gears turning in her mind, and sighs. He was here and she was God knows where, there was nothing she could say that could sway Casval Deikun once he had his mind made up. He could still use the warning. “And not only that, but can you go through with it, physically and mentally? You’re not the kind of person to do something halfway, do you understand fully what doing this requires of you?”

“You’re asking me if I’m prepared to sleep with him?” Char sets down his project and gives her his full attention. Like most people, she flinches at it.

“I’m asking if you think that you can lay next to him without knifing him in the back first.” Sure, he had that brief breakdown in the shower after their first date, but he had kissed Garma twice since then with no issue. That was just nerves before, a fluke. He says nothing. Crowley finishes her coffee.

“Just think about it, Cassie.” She says, and all that explosive energy is gone now, replaced by something more resigned. “Don’t make me get Ramba Ral involved with this.”

“I won’t.” He promises. The air around them has soured, Char’s morally dubious future filling their heads with enough to make up for the silence.

“Be careful.” She says. He misses her, someone he could talk to about anything without any layers of deceit between them and someone who let him lean on her. She knows. She has to know. Doesn’t she?

“You too.” He stays instead of ‘I miss you’, instead of ‘I love you’, instead of ‘thank you’.

The call ends.

The last shift that Garma attends it a game of fleeting touches. Goading others into touching him just to watch how Garma’s eyes narrow and then reveling in how easy it was to placate him with a brief glance. At the end of the night Garma gives him his contact info and Char sends him off with the promise to send him the address of his apartment building so Garma could pick him up for their date on Friday. Garma doesn’t even try to get another kiss from him, too thrilled by having Char’s number to think of anything else.

With his new direct line of communication with Char, Garma sends him good morning messages. It’s exhausting.

On Friday there’s a car waiting outside of his building with a dark paint job and dark tinted windows. The driver opens the door for him, Char pausing to give a brief but sincere thanks, and he climbs in next to Garma. Unlike their last date, and like most of the nights in the club he wasn’t in uniform, which Char expected but part of him resigned itself to seeing again. Instead he’s in a nice casual suit, dark to contrast Char’s white. Speaking of his white suit,

“Oh, wow.” Garma says. He’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before- it’s not like he hasn’t been dressed semi-formally at Club Eden but maybe having his top button done was too much for the poor bastard.

“We’re going out,” Char reminds him, and wonders if it’s inappropriate to whack his date upside the head for staring. “Of course I’m going to look nice.”

“Are you allergic to compliments?” The car pulls out of it's parking space and out onto the street. Garma didn't tell the driver directions, so he must already know where they're going.

“You haven’t complimented me yet.” And when he says this Garma gets that look on his face again, like the second night at the club, where it looks like he’s psyching himself up to do something nerve-wracking when in actuality he’s just being open and honest about his little schoolboy crush. He even glances away, turns his head a bit like he was too shy to look Char in the eye.

“You look very nice today.” He says. He’s so cute when he gets like this, earnest and serious, and it compels him to lean over and press a glancing kiss onto Garma’s flushed cheek.

“So do you.” He compliments, and when Garma turns to face him he reaches out and tucks the bit of hair Garma was always fiddling with behind his ear for him. “Very handsome.”

Garma squeaks, and turns so red that Char almost worries for his health.

The restaurant they stop outside of is one Char has never heard of, but looks and smells wonderful from the outside. They skip the line curving around the restaurant, roped away behind a sign that says ‘walk ins’ and go straight to the hostess.

“Do you have a reservation?” She asks, jotting something down on a pad of paper, hanging up a phone that sits on her desk. She visibly does a double-take when she looks up and sees Garma.

“Under Zabi.” Garma says, unnecessarily, because the hostess is staring.

“Of course.” After another moment of staring and an inquisitive glance back to Char she pours over the reservation book, and gestures hurriedly to one of the servers. “She’ll lead you to your table, gentlemen.”

“After you.” Garma offers, and Char smiles.

“Cute.”

Their table is sequestered away from the others, behind a long decorative divider and some plants. Depending on who you’re with he supposes it was used for very romantic reasons or very shady reasons. Little bit of column A, little bit of column B tonight. The divider could hide a longer table for more guest but currently there’s a cozy table for two waiting for them. Char drapes his jacket over the back of his chair and idly thinks of pulling Garma’s chair out for him like the men in the movies but the curious eyes of the waiter filling their water glasses persuades him not to.

“See, isn’t this better?” Char teases, gesturing at the table after they’re sat and alone. “Much more comfortable than the booths.”

“Cozy.” Garma remarks, and he’s already blushing and Char hasn’t even done anything of consequence.

“And here you get me all to yourself.” Garma meets his eye, less confident than their first date but more confident than at the club, and takes his hand in his. Garma’s hands are pale but strong, not the hands of the fragile blue-blood that Char so often thought of him as, but hands that knew how to use a gun and sign treaties and draft trade agreements. He has a stubborn spot of ink caught under one of his perfect fingernails and a shiny little barely-there scar next to the knuckle of his little finger. Char doesn’t think he’s ever had the occasion to study Garma like this before. He runs his thumb gently over his date’s knuckles, pleased by the little noise of contentment that Garma lets slip at the feeling.

“You get me,” he repeats, and Garma drags his gaze away from their joined hands and up to his eyes, “and I get you.”

“Char.” Garma says lowly, embarrassed, and it’s more of something to say to fill the silence than something with any thought behind it. He hums, another sound to take up space, and they fall silent. It’s not awkward, or for a lack of anything else to say, Garma could ask Char many questions and Char is sure he has plenty of idle stories that would amuse the Zabi to no end, but they are rather content as they are, sitting together. At the club it was always under the pretense of a show, always Char sneaking away with he expectation that he would be called back to the stage and Garma would leave at the end of the night. Here, it’s relaxed and no pressure. Char is content to take in Garma, trace the attractive curve of his upper lip and the curl of his eyelashes, and allow Garma to do the same to him. He’s sure he looks better than usual, outside of the shitty club lighting and while he’s actively trying to suit his date’s tastes. They do begin to talk eventually, cued by Garma inquiring about the cat scratches on the back of his hand. It remains relaxed, _they_ remain relaxed. Garma’s hand is warm in his. Whenever he shifts but doesn’t let go Garma smiles at him like he just won the lottery. It's disgusting, but pleasant.

And when their first course comes Char makes no move to drop Garma’s hand (until they both have to grab their utensils).

Their dinner passes, Garma doing precisely what Char wants without him manipulating him much at all. After, when they get back in the car together, Garma sit close and rests his head on his shoulder.

“You didn’t have to.” He says when Garma scurries out of the car as soon as it’s parked outside his building and opens the door for him. The night is soft and quiet around them, and cold as always. Garma looks freezing with his jacket left in the backseat.

“I wanted to.” He says, to the point. He smiles at Char expectantly, glancing behind him to the door of his building.

“You want to walk me up, don’t you?” Char sighs, and Garma’s smile widens.

“It’s gentlemanly.” He insists and Char laughs at him.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one doing anything chivalrous with their date on this side of town.” He holds the door for Garma, who looks around the bland lobby of his building curiously. “Second floor. Elevator’s broken.” It’s bizarre, looking behind him and seeing Garma Zabi waking after him, purple and vibrant against the grungy carpet of the stairwell. He skirts around a crumpled wrapper on the landing like it’d bite him and Char snickers. When they reach the second floor it’s Char’s turn to blink at his date expectantly.

“What?” Garma asks, staring between his offered hand and Char with obvious confusion.

“Well, aren’t you walking me home? Escort me to 206, your Highness.” Garma barks out a laugh, but when Char shoulders open the door he does slip his hand into his own and takes the lead.

“I had fun.” Char tells him truthfully. Garma lets their joined hands swing between them.

“Yeah?” He asks it like he’s making sure Char isn’t lying to him and he smiles. For once, he isn't.

“Yeah.” They pause in unison in front of Char’s door. He takes his hand back and doesn’t let his amusement at Garma’s disappointed look show on his face. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

“But let me guess, you don’t want to see me in the club until Wednesday.” He was a smart one, his Garma Zabi.

“Thursday.” Char barters, and he gets a lovelorn smile in return. “I can’t be the only one worried about your image.”

“Thursday.” His date agrees, ignoring the pointed callout.

“Goodnight.” Char tells him.

As he turns, hand already fishing in his pocket for his key, Garma speaks again: “Char, wait.”

“Hm?” When he turns again Garma is standing square like he is bracing for something. There’s that presence again, that intent that Char felt the very first night they locked eyes at the party, heavy handed and authoritative. Quite frankly, it makes his breath catch.

“You said that no one is doing anything nice here, everyone was unchivalrous.” He says. He steps forward and Char steps back. His keys hit the ground with a thump, slipping from his loose fingers. It’s ignored.

Char doesn’t really trust himself to speak so he just makes a little noise of agreement. He hopes his panic isn’t showing on his face.

“Can I?” Garma is asking. Char’s back hits his door but there’s no such roadblock for Garma, who invades Char’s space. The two of them are really just about the same height so there’s no way of avoiding Garma’s intent gaze. His eyes are pretty at least, dark and glittering.

“Can you?” Char echoes, dumbly. Garma smiles, close enough that their noses brush.

“Do something unchivalrous.” He clarifies, and a hand comes to rest on his cheek, feeling so different than when it was only against his own palm.

“Please.” He allows, and closes his eyes when Garma leans in

It’s a nice kiss. Garma’s lips are soft and warm and so is his hand where it curls against his jaw. His cologne is something mellow without being overly floral or feminine, and he fits perfectly against him, hip to hip, chest to chest, barely rocking up on his toes to capture Char’s lips with is own. It’s actually relaxing, kissing Garma like this. Relaxing just like their night together and their conversations and the sensation of their hands linked together. Char’s hands find a home on Garma’s waist, hipbones the perfect size to fit snugly into his hold, and when Char tugs him closer Garma’s hand on his face leaves and he throws his arms over his shoulders, hands coming to rest possessively against the back of Char’s neck. Getting pressed up against his door was not how he expected this date to end, but he wasn’t really complaining. Garma was a good kisser, if not a little submissive for the position they were in, and Char parts his lips against his partners, lets their embrace get deeper and wetter. They kiss and kiss and kiss, slow and lazy, the hands on his neck eventually creeping into his hair and tugging him down, the hands on Garma’s hips sliding down to grab generous handfuls of his ass. Garma has a nice ass, he realizes, he really never had the occasion to look but it sure felt nice. He smiles on instinct, caressing the swell of it with greedy hands, and Garma squeaks into his mouth, jolting against him. Retaliation comes in the form of a pointed bite to the lip that feels more like a reward than a punishment, and when it drags a pleased hum from him Garma echoes it with one of his own. Where their chests are pressed together Char can feel Garma’s little groan vibrate though him, and that seemed to be the thing that makes his dick wake up and get with the program. His hair gets tugged again and Char obeys, turning the way Garma wants him, anything to try and coax more of those little noises from him. He pulls him closer.

Garma kicks his dropped keys.

They freeze in unison at the loud noise, and then Garma is weaseling out of his grasp, blinking at him with wide shocked eyes from just out of arms reach. He shakily licks his bottom lip, kiss flushed and vaguely shiny with spit. Char, with nothing to do with his hands anymore reaches up to comb through his rumpled hair.

“Uh-.” Garma croaks, and moves jerkily like he’s going to bend and grab his keys for him, but aborts and takes another step back, all confidence gone. “Goodnight then.” And he turns on his heel and power walks down the hall towards the stairwell. The door opens and closes and Char stays, back pressed against his door and blinking at the empty space that Garma once occupied.

“Goodnight.” He says to no one.

His knees ache when he stoops to pick up his keys, and the sound of the lock unlatching is maybe the loudest sound he’s ever heard in his life. His apartment is just how he left it, down to the three extra pairs of shoes that he was choosing between before he went down for his date. He lets his jacket slide off his shoulders and fall to the floor. He drops his keys, missing the corner of the kitchen table. There’s another thump, Zack jumping off his bed and trotting out to greet him. He steps out of his shoes, leaving them in the middle of the floor, and strides into the kitchen. On autopilot his hand reaches for the cabinet and he grabs a drinking glass with shaking hands. It’s pleasantly cold, chasing away the warmth that lingers from Garma’s skin. Cold, that’s what he needed, he needed water to drown this strange feeling rattling around in his chest. The sink hisses to life and overfills his glass in a blink. Char drinks it all, parched in a way he’s never felt before. He breathes, watches his hand shake around the glass, watching the moonlight through the kitchen window hit the edges of the glass and refract little bits of light against his walls. Sharp and glittering, just like Garma’s eyes.

Garma.

He snarls with rage and his glass is shattering against the far cabinets before he even realizes he threw it. He breathes through the anger, and only stops the measured in-hold-out when his hands stop shaking and he stops feeling like he’s going to vomit up every bit of the seven course meal he was just treated to. He feels like he’s-

He-.

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, really. For the first time in his life his wild thoughts are gone, replaced with short jagged ones that do nothing but let him feel the phantom of Garma against him.

When Char takes a shaky step towards the horrible mess he’s made Zack meows from the beside the kitchen table.

“Stay out of the kitchen.” Char tells him, like he’ll listen. “You’ll cut your paws.” Zack sits, watching him squat and sweep the shattered glass into a pile. His hands are still shaking.

When everything is clear Zack picks his way across the floor, and leans his entire body against Char’s shin and starts purring.

Char’s knees wobble, and he scoops his cat into his arms and buries his face into his soft fur.

He exhales, slowly, and admits the truth that had been dawning on him all night:

Garma wasn’t that bad.

The next three days, though Garma doesn’t attend his shows as requested, but he sends a bouquet of roses each day at noon along with his cheery good morning message. It's _exhausting_.

It's annoying really, how much that date affects him. He's been on dates before, kissed and been kissed when it suited him, it's not like Garma did anything special, but clearly he _did_ because Char cant stop fucking thinking about it. Was it because Garma's been getting steadily more and more confident with him and he didn't like the change in dynamics? Was it just because of the change of scenery, was Char just uncomfortable in an unfamiliar place? No, not that one, because he did fine with their first date, the one in Garma's home and in Char's father's old office. Though he did have a moment of hesitation after that one too. Was it something he ate, an allergic reaction? He's seen Garma in suits and he's eaten with him before and he's touched his hand and kissed him before. He's laughed at Garma's jokes and found him charming before, none of that was new.

The silence was, though.

The silence between them at the dinner table, where both of them were content enough not to speak. Char did so because to speak was trying, to tear apart every little thing before it left his mouth was something that grew old very quick, so the silence suited him. Garma did so because he liked him, thought he was handsome, wanted the chance to ogle uninterrupted. There was a moment like that between them in Club Eden too, after Garma admitted he was there to see him. That one was intentional, maybe he was so off-beat because this one was something that they fell into in a moment of mutual understanding.

Char sighs, and slips on his sunglasses. Oh well, he had better things to do today besides think about Garma Zabi. He backtracks for a moment, grabs his widest tallest glass from the kitchen and fills it with a splash of water. Knowing Garma there was another bunch of flowers for him waiting by the front door- Char just got his message a moment ago and when there was a message there usually was flowers. Perhaps if he's lucky he can catch the delivery man and ask him to return them. He snatches up his shopping list from the table and steps into his shoes.

He opens his door to someone in front of it.

“Oh.” Char says, and Garma straightens in a hurry, drawing away from the bouquet he was placing down like it bit him.

“C-Char!” He splutters. He’s, coincidentally, also wearing sunglasses, as if that could possibly hide his distinctive hair color and conceal his identity. Char really couldn't catch a break, could he?

“You’ve been delivering those by hand?” When Garma doesn’t say anything Char spares him a smile and scoops up his newest arrangement. He’s gotten all sorts of colors, red and pink and some delicate lilac purple ones, but these ones are snow white, leaves dark and eye-catching. “Thank you, by the way.” He throws over his shoulder, unwrapping his prize and setting them in a waiting vase. He was going to have to start getting creative with the next delivery, that was the last vaguely vase-shaped receptacle he had. “They’re lovely.”

“You like them?” Garma asks hesitantly, and he peeks his head into Char’s apartment curiously without crossing the threshold.

“They’re a nice gesture.” Char throws the wrapping away and scoops up the jacket waiting over the back of the couch. “But don’t flowers usually go along with an apology or anniversary? You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I kind of ran out on you the other night.” Garma admits, and fiddles with his hair. He steps aside when Char moves to leave and watches him shut the door and lock it. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Errands.” Is his response. Garma’s face falls a bit.

“So no time for a date?” Char laughs, and Garma trails down the hallway after him like a lost duckling.

“Spontaneous, aren’t we?” That gets him one of those flustered glances away that he loves so much.

“You said you had a nice time.” Garma defends.

“I did.” The stairwell door slams behind them, and Char spares a nod to one of his neighbors who they pass, who stares over his shoulder at Garma in shock. “But I only have this one day off, so I need to do all the running around that I put off on Friday today.” Not to mention he was still processing their last outing.

“Want some company?” Garma asks, like it’s nothing. Char holds the door for him when the get to the bottom of the stairs, and then for the little old lady who lives in 203.

“That would be an incredibly boring date.” Char tells him, but he weighs the pros and cons. “But if you have your car I wouldn’t entirely be opposed. I don’t really feel like walking.”

"It's a date then!" Sure enough, outside their building is that same dark car, same driver. Garma opens the door for him, again. 

"You're content to drive me around all afternoon?" He asks when Garma joins him.

"Well you have work later, right?" Being together with Garma in the day feels different somehow, like he's brighter and shinier. A flower facing the light of the sun. "I wouldn't want you to not get everything done in time."

"My hero." Char tells him dryly, and Garma preens. Char's first errand is to drop off the suit jacket he grabbed on his way out the door to the tailors. It was something he tried to fix but mangled a bit during his efforts and, sentimental as it was, it was one of his favorites. He could spare a bit of cash to get it fixed in a way that didn't make him look like Frankenstein. He's had to take this particular coat in a few times, last time he asked the seamstress said something about the fabric it was made of not taking stitching well unless you did it very specifically. Stitching specifically was not one of his specialities, so he'd rather leave it in the hands of the professionals. It's a quick errand with a car, stupidly quick, but on the rather unhelpful foot paths it would've taken Char an hour to get there as opposed to the ten minutes chauffered by Garma. 

"Just the coat?" The man asks him, blinking curiously at him as he returns to the car empty-handed. That face remains when Char shrugs and explains. "Get a new one." Garma says, unhelpfully.

"I like this one." Garma is silent for a moment.

"Do you mind if I run my own errands while we're out?" He asks innocently. Char doesn't trust him for a moment, but after he got chewed out by Crowley he decided to take a bit more, magnanimous approach. He let Garma kiss him, after all, might as well let him go though with whatever scheme he had rolling around in that pretty little head of his.

"I don't mind." He's glad his voice holds none of the suspicion he feels. "You're doing me a favor after all, and it would be a boring date if we only went to the grocery store after this."

“I’m feeling partial to a little shopping.” Garma tells the driver, who nods with a gruff ‘of course, sir’. Char watches the grocery store whizz by and sighs, crossing his arms.

“This might count as kidnapping.” He tells Garma pointedly.

“Don’t you have to be a kid for kidnapping to apply?”

“Abduction, then.” And Garma sidles up to him, close enough that their shoulders brush.

“You agreed.” He reminds him. Char obligingly takes the hand the Garma offers, threading their fingers together. 

"Don't make me regret it." The warning falls on deaf ears, and Char begins plotting how to get Garma comfortable with Char telling him 'no'. 

The drive to wherever Garma intends is a bit longer than from Char's building to the tailors, but his date eventually shepherds him into a storefront. It opens up into what's too fancy to really be a 'mall', but it serves the same purpose he supposes, if serving different clientele with more expensive taste. Garma dips into a few stores, buzzing around racks and stopping to consider things. Employees go straight to him, as if sensing that Char had nothing to offer them, giving him their sales pitches and their recommendations. Char trails his hands over a coat. He didn't even have to look at the price tag, just touching the fabric was enough. It was luxurious, yet oddly uncomfortable, that meant it was expensive. If things had turned out differently, he muses, this jacket wouldn't feel uncomfortable to him at all, born and raised in the lap of luxury as he was meant to.

“That’s nice.” Garma says, peeking around him to examine the jacket in his hands. Char stops his nostalgic musing, and shrugs, rehanging it on the rack.

“It is.” He agrees, “But it’s not your color, I think it would clash with your hair.”

“Do you like it?” Garma asks, strangely intent. Char glances back at the rack.

“Sure. Everything here is nice. You have good taste.”

“Not for me, for you.” Garma clarifies.

“For me?” Char asks, despite himself. Garma has taken him by surprise all day today, he really should stop being so assuming or it was going to bite him in the ass.

“For you.” Garma reaches past him and picks up the jacket, shifting his own selections to one arm, and holds it up against Char’s torso, regarding him with a critical eye. “You’d look good in it- do look good in it.” And he nods, resolute, and drapes it over his arm beside his own picks. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“That’s not necessary-.” Char tries but Garma stares at him with that look again, intense and searching, and it makes his words dry up.

“How many times have you brought that suit jacket to the tailors?” Char says nothing. Garma gestures with the arm the jacket- *his* new jacket, apparently- and asks, chin raised high, “This is your size?” Char nods.

“You bully me all the time.” Garma points a finger at his chest. “Let me bully you for once.” And the finger that is leveled at him points deeper into the store. “Now, we’re not leaving until you pick out four more things for me to buy you. Minimum.”

“Fine.” Docile. Polite. Greatful. “Thank you.” Do not think about knocking Garma out cold, think about all the things you can sucker him into buying for you.

“My pleasure.” Garma says, like it genuinely pleases him. When he pays, Char gesturing to things at random just to get them out of the store, it seems to unlock something in him and he pulls them into the next storefront, this one even more expensive, and demands the same of him. His impromptu date drags him to several shops like this, in empty handed and out with a bag of expensive things for Char to wear. They will walk past something and Garma will stop and steer him back towards it if Char even spares it a glance. He learns a few things about Garma the next hour or two. He’s got an incredible eye for tracking where Char is looking, he’s just as good at wearing Char down as Char is at wearing Garma down, he has quick hands and a good handle on Char’s approximate size, and he seemingly has unending patience when it comes to shopping.

“What are you getting from this?” Char asks him curiously as the Zabi puts down another one of his “selections” to make room in his arms for something he wanted to buy Char. He was beginning to think Garma was just picking up random things that he had no intention of buying for himself to keep him from complaining too much.

“I’m bored sitting at home alone all day.” He says simply, and plucks a sweater off the racks that aligns perfectly with Char's tastes. “and I like the look in your eyes you get when you like something.”

“I get a look?” Garma nods sagely, herding them deeper into the store.

“It’s cute.” He says, and even paying Char that little of a compliment makes him turn a light shade of pink.

“A look, huh?” Which prompts Garma to turn. He looks nice today, Char really hadn’t noticed until he had been staring at clothes for hours, but Garma looks nice. His jacket is something neutral and military cut, but informal enough to wear out. And, like he realized the other night, he does have a rather nice ass, clad in a light wash denim. When he meets Garma’s eye the pale pink of his cheeks has turned to a full red.

“Yeah,” he says weakly, “That look. The one on your face right now.”

“Hm.” And he tucks his hand into Garma’s free one, “Must’ve seen something I liked, then.”

Garma punishes him by threatening to drag Char into a jewelry store, which Char barely talks him out of.

Their next stop seems to actually hold things of some interest to Garma because he leaves Char's side for a moment to talk with the man behind the counter. The designer, maybe, they're talking about a collection of some sort, fashion politics or something like that, but it gives Char a chance to breathe. He wanders, picks up a salmon-colored sundress from the rack and hovers it in the air next to him. Artesia draws the line at Char buying her clothes, content to buy her own with money from her many under the table jobs, so he doesn't know her size like he does his mothers, but if he imagines her standing next to him maybe he could figure it out.

“This is nice.” Garma hums. Char squints at the mirror and at his imaginary sister. Maybe a bit big, Artesia took after their mother and had her slim figure.

“It is.” The dialogue is stale, it’s how his date attempts him to letting him buy something for him every time, with an unassuming ‘this is nice’, and a soft smile just like the one on his face.

“It’s not exactly your size.” He squints, and Char hangs it back on the rack. “Your color, though.”

“Not everything I look at I want to buy.”

“But you actually thought about this one.” Garma argues. It really was a nice dress, maybe a little too low in the neckline for Artesia to be comfortable in.

“How do you know that?” It was a serious question, he had no idea how Garma keeps zeroing in on things like this. He’d like to stop doing whatever tell it was that Garma was using.

“You made a face.” Garma says, like that made sense. How incredibly vague and unhelpful of him.

“I was thinking it would look nice on my sister.” Char says. It would look nice on Artesia, but she wasn’t much of a dress-wearer. She liked things that flowed, fabric that moved, but she preferred those to come in the form of long jackets and pantsuits- Char hadn’t seen her wear something like this in a long time.

“You have a sister?” Garma asks, analytical eye softened into schoolboy curiosity.

“She’s studying medicine on Von Braun.” That’s what Char and his mother kept trying to get her to do at least, but she was intent on staying somewhere between the two of them. A waste of talent and drive, Char thought, but they had a year or so to convince her.

“Medicine? She must be smart.”

“Extremely.” Char praises quietly. “From what I hear of your sister she’s rather smart too.”

“Maybe too smart.” And Garma pouts sullenly. Char stifles a laugh.

“Come on.” He says, and bumps shoulders with his date. “You’re going to have to spoil me a bit more before you can convince me to squeeze into a dress.” He lets his eyes purposefully drag up Garmas body, overly lecherous. “You’ve got the waist for one though.”

“Alright, fine, we’re paying.” Garma sighs. Another win in the books: 12-7 Char.

“I don’t have room for all of this.” Char says after another long hour, holding up his hands in surrender. “My closet is only so big.”

“Then I’ll buy you a bigger wardrobe.” Garma dismisses, handing off yet another bag to the valet. The woman walks off, steps brisk, arms laden with their purchases. Char has honestly lost track of the amount that they’ve sent away. He humored the man, not feeling any shame at all in seeing Garma spend all his blood money on spoiling Char rotten, but the man seemingly had no end to his dotage and no end to the depths of his pockets.

“My cat it going to starve to death, and it’s all our fault.” He sniffs. Garma points, and tugs on his arm.

“One more.” He promises, and Char lets himself get dragged away from the entrance and their car.

(‘One more’ turns into two and the jewelry store he dodged earlier. Garma lets him get away with two pairs of earrings. Suspiciously, he wouldn’t let him see the total, which is never a good sign when buying things set with precious stones.)

While shopping was Garma’s idea and he got to watch Char flounder, the shoe is on the other foot at the supermarket.

“Can you cook well?” Garma asks stiffly as Char tries to remember the difference between canola oil and vegetable oil.

“If I have a recipe.” He chooses vegetable oil, dropping it into the rickety cart Garma pushes. They’ve gotten less looks in the store than they got in the boutiques, but they’ve also passed a few people with hair dyed Zabi purple, so clearly Garma’s looks weren’t really anything special here. “You’ve never been grocery shopping?”

“Is it obvious.” Garma asks. A baby starts crying somewhere, and he grimaces.

Char buys more than he needs, just to keep Garma uncomfortable for as long as possible. Garma pays.

Garma and Char chat as they walk up the stairs back to his apartment. After combining all the bags they came up with three each, three (stuffed full) bags of clothing for Garma to cart up and Char’s three bags of groceries.

“It’s awkward timing for someone not on my schedule,” he blurts before he can stop himself, key in the door, “but would you like to stay for lunch?” 

“I’d like that.” Garma agrees. Char opens the door and beckons Garma in, closing it behind them before the cat could dart out into the hallway. He hadn’t heard him coming, but it was always a possibility.

“Zack, I’m home.” He calls out of habit, and _there’s_ the thump of something jumping off the bed. “We have company.”

“Where do you want these?” His guest asks, and Char gestures with his shoulder at the lone armchair tucked between his bookshelf and the window.

“Over there.” He deposits his groceries on the kitchen table and starts unpacking them, leaving out the ingredients he picked out for lunch.

“Oh!” Garma says, in a tone of voice Char has never heard him use before, which probably means that he’s seen the kitten. Zack walks right by him and straight to Char, butting up against his calves so aggressively he was practically throwing himself at him.

“You’re an awful host.” Char tells him, curt. The cat tries to climb Char’s leg.

“He’s cute.” Garma coos, already sitting on the ground with his knees folded under him.

“He’s feral.” Char picks Zack off his pants, unsnagging his nails from the fabric. “Go entertain Garma, I have lunch to make.” His cat, with Garma now lower to the ground, realizes that there are other hands available to pet him, and trots over to him.

“Hello.” Garma says, and holds his hand out for Zack to sniff. The cat brushes past the offered hand and climbs on top of Garma’s thighs. Garma looks up at Char like he’s about to have a panic attack.

“Good work, Zack.” Char tells the kitten, who is kneading at the Zabi with needle-sharp claws, and heads into the kitchen.

He can barely see the top Garma’s hair over the counter, but he is by no means alone while he unpacks and cooks. Garma pesters him, pinned down by a cat in his lap, and when said cat gets up to weave through his ankles in the kitchen, his date follows, leaning against the counter and watching him with eyes that are soft and relaxed.

“Hand me that.” Char requests. Garma hands over a knife with no fanfare and no suspicion. Char uses it to chop bell peppers, and considers putting the hand that comes to rest on the small of his back on the cutting board next.

After lunch, which Garma praises despite its simplicity, he feeds his cat, shutting the bedroom door softly behind him when he leaves.

“Sit with me.” Garma says like he always does, an order instead of a request. Char plops down on the couch. He was stupid, he invited Garma in so there would be no misunderstandings, that this afternoon wouldn't leave Char indebted to Garma in any way, but it had only really made the indulgent look in the man's eyes worse and now he didn't have any good excuse to part from him naturally. He had work, but not for hours, though Garma didn't know that, but he couldn't just tell him that he needed to clear out now. Char likes Garma, though Casval doesn't (Casval _shouldn't_ ) so he needed to act like it, needed to keep Garma compliant. Maybe asking for 'bold' was starting to work against him here.

“Sit with you, huh?” He muses when Garma throws a leg up over his and straddles his lap. “I suppose this is sitting.”

“I had fun today.” Garma sighs, and loop his arms around the back of Char's neck, just like the night against the door. It clear then what Garma wants from him, so he smile at his predictability and tilts his head up to kiss him. They're back on even ground again, somewhere familiar. Char places his hands on the back of Garma's thighs, warm even through the denim, and pulls him closer. Maybe there _was_ something he could do. Garma's little noises of contented pleasure as they kiss make him twitchy, and he can't hold his hands still, instead letting them wander the body on top of his own; thighs, hips, ass, back, stomach. And something else, something that grows steadily as Garma hands over control to Char and lets himself be kissed thoroughly, hands over control and lets Char press a hand between them and against his growing erection. He's so _easy_ , so willing. 

"Fine?" Char asks between kisses and Garma grinds his hips down into the palm of Char's hand.

"More than." He gasps. He likes these sounds Garma's making even better, so he moves his lips down to his neck, mouthing at the pulse point that flutters at the side of his throat. 

"Louder." Char requests hot against Garma's jugular, and Garma moans like it's call and response. Against Char's hand, he twitches. Despite the good reactions and the pleasure he gets from seeing his fated enemy and date rub himself wantonly against him, his wrist was starting to ache from the awkward position and the pressure of Garma's hips. 

“Garma.” All he gets is a little noise in response, and another deep kiss that he happily reciprocates. “Garma.” He says again, and his date finally retreats. From this distance Char notices that his eyelashes aren’t black, but a dark dark purple. It’s charming.

“Let me suck your dick.” At his words Garma startles so hard he almost falls off Char’s lap, saved only by the hands curled possessively around his ribcage.

“Yeah.” He agrees breathlessly once he processes what Char asked him, “Yeah, okay.” Char rolls them over to something more his liking, Garma under Char now instead of he under him and he gets a breathless little smile.

“Smooth.” Garma says against his lips, but Char doesn’t want him saying words, he wants him making whatever kind of noises he made with his dick in Char’s mouth so he could hurry up and finish and get the fuck out of his apartment. So he scrapes his teeth over Garma’s jaw and starts popping the buttons of his shirt open.

“Are you gonna lay there or are you gonna be helpful?” He asks. Garma only shucks his shirt halfway off, not out of laziness but because that's all Char lets him do- he starts squirming when Char gets his mouth on his chest. His skin is soft and it takes just the barest press of his teeth to make it flare pink, so of course Char presses harder.

Garma hisses in a breath, “Watch the teeth.”

“No teeth?” Char unfastens Garma’s final button, and pets his hands down his tight stomach.

“I didn’t say no teeth.” Garma clarifies, untangling the shirt from where it was caught around his elbows. He looks flustered, and once his hands are free he smooths the hair that Char had so artfully rumpled back into place. The talking stops when Char gets his wandering hands on his partner’s belt. He flips the catch and unthreads the tail of it and Garma surges up to kiss him. When their lips connect it’s nothing like any of their other kisses- it’s not teasing and it’s not the syrupy slow ones that Char so likes to bestow upon his pet prince, it’s fast and wet and desperate. Garma takes his mandate of ‘some teeth’ to heart here, nipping at Char’s lip and chin and jaw and anywhere he can reach between his bruising kisses. If that was the pace that Garma wanted to set, fine by him. He’d march to Garma’s beat here, that suited him just fine. With Garma leaning up like this it is no problem to pop the buttons on his jeans and shimmy them down and off his hips. He kisses Garma once more, a brief goodbye, and then lets his body follow, shifting from kneeling over Garma on the couch to kneeling before his trembling legs. His briefs are straining around the shape of him, damp where the head presses into the fabric. Char smooths his hands up Garma’s legs, finely haired and rose petal soft, from the fine bird-bones in his ankles and up and around to the tops of his thighs. He presses a kiss to the inside of his knee.

“Spread ‘em.” He instructs.

“Char.” Garma says his name different than anyone else does, sharp, snagging Char’s attention like it was full of hooks. It’s like it activates a neon sign above their heads, Char is pulled in like a moth to flame. Maybe it was because of how often they were together now, how used he was to hearing that voice wrap around his name. ‘Char’ he had said, his name but not *him*. ‘Char’ he said, and it’s nothing more than pale hands tugging him closer by a leash.

Garma may have him, but Char has a hand on Garma’s leash too. A hand on *many* things of Garma’s.

With coaxing, the legs before him spread. His erection hasn’t flagged a bit in his embarrassment or in his hesitance. When Char makes a satisfied noise at his date’s obedience Garma covers his face with his hands. Char likes the way it looks, the dark cotton stretched tight over Garma’s pale thighs, so he snags his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down just far enough that he can draw out the Zabi’s cock, letting the pretty picture the fabric paints stay mostly as it was. Garma makes an almost wounded noise when Char gets a hand around him, and a cursory glance up reveals another sight Char decides he likes. He’s made a bit of a mess of the wayward prince and everywhere there are stamps of Char’s presence; the flares of pink on his otherwise unmarred chest left by Char’s teeth, hair upset from it’s normal gentle curl around his ear, the mortified red flush of his face that he smothers behind his pale hands. And yet those fingers are parted, and Garma’s eyes watch him, enraptured. Char put that look there too. That look and the wetness that pools at the tip of the cock fisted in his hands compel him to move, to lazily stroke like to do so bored him, so slow and dry it must verge on painful, and tip his head up to smile indulgently.

“Something to say?” Garma twitches in his hand, which he rewards with an amused hum and slightly faster downstroke. From behind the shelter of his hands, Garma sucks in a long breath through his teeth.

“N-not particularly.” He mumbles and Char leans in and presses his lips to the underside of Garma’s dick right over where his hand sits. Garma’s thighs tremble, smooth and soft where they touch his shoulders, and he lets his tongue poke out past his lips to gather that slick beading at the flushed head, leaving his own wetness behind. Then he dips down for another open faux-kiss, mouthing at a slightly raised vein he can follow with his eyes. Garma makes a sound that can only be classified as a whimper. And it stays much like that for a long while, Char teasing desperate little noises out of his… _whatever Garma was to him_ with little glancing passes of his tongue and hot presses of his lips and Garma’s thighs around him squeezing tighter and tighter. Until Char gives Garma a parting lick at the tip and toothy grin and finally takes him into his mouth.

Garma’s head falls back against the the couch cushions.

Sucking dick is rather unremarkable, he decides. For all that sex and sex-acts were hyped up and deemed as an important and significant actions between two people, Char wasn’t feeling much of anything really. He had to stretch his mouth a bit wider than he thought he would and the hot pressure and weight of Garma against his tongue was pleasant, he supposes, but those were all physical sensation rather than an emotional connection. It is a bit unfair of him to expect giving head to suddenly make him fall in love or make the stuck up brat bearable at least, but Garma was clearly getting something from this. Something other than pleasure, that is. The hot glances that he is sent were lustful, yes, but there’s an annoying softer haze to them, the hand that Garma tangles in his hair isn’t to push him further or guide his movements, if anything it’s simply playing with his hair. Garma _likes_ him, and Char can’t tell if he’s getting off more on what Char is doing to him or the fact that the one doing this to him is _him_. It’s flattering, but it’s a bit annoying that all his hard work might be for nothing. He’s never really triggered his gag reflex before, never really had any reason to before this, but it’s easy enough to chip away at it. He wants all of it, he wants to see the look on Garma’s face when he swallows him all the way down, wants to hear what he says then. Sucking dick was unremarkable, yes, but the power trip that Char was getting from it was another story entirely.

Garma tugs at his hair, calls his name like he wants him to stop, so Char eases up, pops off and catches the excess saliva that he leaves behind with an indifferent swipe of his tongue. He lets Garma’s cock sit there for a moment, against the flat of his outstretched tongue, and breathes. He isn’t panting, Char Aznable doesn’t _pant._ He’s just getting his breathing back under control. The air around them was getting hotter, Char was starting to sweat.

“Guh.” Garma says intelligently when Char lets him slide off his tongue, and Char snuggles deeper into the gap between his thighs, looking up at the Zabi with teasing eyes.

“Hm?” He asks, Garma’s wet dick pressed up against his cheek.

“You’re going to fucking kill me.” Garma says, eyes wide with awe. “I’m going to die here.”

“Hell of a way to go.” Char smiles, and tries not to get ahead of himself. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…” His breath is coming quickly and Char can practically see his heart beating under his ribcage, under the marks Char left on him. “…I just needed a second.” Char hums, presses a hot kiss to his partner’s hipbone.

“Take a second.” His lips trace a vein down, down a creamy thigh. God, he really liked these. Squishy and smooth and fever-warm.

“Can I leave marks?” He asks, glancing up. He didn’t ask before, but he was thinking about leaving something a little darker than his brief bites left.

“Fuck.” Garma says, with feeling. But he nods, eyes blown wide, and Char doesn’t ask twice. He sets to it with enthusiasm, kissing open mouthed and hard on a bit of thigh that calls to him. He kisses and sucks and bites, dragging out the things that make Garma clench and squirm and make his breath catch and discarding the things that don’t seem to affect him that much. When he pulls away after a long moment that makes him feel absurd, gnawing on Garma Zabi’s inner thigh, there’s an ugly mark the approximate size and shape of his mouth stamped into his flesh. The sight of that mark, more-so than the texture of flesh under his lips or the shiver he got when he bit down on something that was probably a tendon, was what pleased him, and it was more of a stroke to the ego than to his cock. It does make his teeth ache though, seeing his handiwork, so he begins work on his second. Fuck, he’s already said it but Garma had nice fucking thighs. He was active, there was muscle and shape there, but there was a delicious amount of give. When he grabs a handful his fingers press divots into the supple flesh, and Garma ‘eep’s when he grips hard enough to leave marks from his fingertips too. When the other shakes and quakes under his ministrations there’s a bit of a jiggle. Fuck getting Garma to leave, Char wanted him to stay so he could stay here between his legs. A small price to pay for the wild look in his partner's eye, the way he bares his neck for the blade he cant see coming. He leaves his marks until he’s pulled off by the hair again, lingers until the tugging sends pure sensation rippling through his scalp and tingling down his spine.

“Satisfied?” Garma pants. Char’s dick throbs and the roots of his hair ache. Hm, how to get Garma to do that to him again?

“Did that hurt?” He asks instead of answering. The body under him is twitching, the break he requested full of more pain and pleasure instead of rest, and if he shivers harder he was going to shake out of his skin. Fuck, he hoped it hurt. 

“Yes.” Garma hisses, but he let Char give him five and a half deep dark bruises before he yanked him away so the pain must’ve been secondary.

“Thank you, baby.” He murmurs around a wolf's smile, and presses a worshipful kiss against Garma’s stomach, the highest he can reach from down on his knees.

“For what?” He says nothing about the little diminutive that Char lets slip, so Char repays him with another brief yet affectionate press of his lips against the planes of his stomach.

“Letting me have my fun.” He shifts, pressed fingers into those marks, watches a bead of precum creep its was down Garma's shaft. “Now you’ll let me make you symmetrical, right?”

“Char.” Garma growls, and Char wraps a hand loosely around the Zabi’s neglected cock.

“Or maybe you’ll let me give you a reward.” He muses, and Garma hangs on his every word, lets him guide his hands to fist loosely in the front of his hair, “You did so good staying still and behaving for me.” He looks pointedly, “Give me something else to use my mouth on?”

Garma moans near incoherently in response. He can pick out the words ‘Char’ and ‘fuck yes’ out easily.

“Pull my hair.” He instructs, “I like it.” And simple as that, he gets his mouth back on Garma.

All and all it's easy to get Garma to his breaking point from there. He's pulled taut like a rubber band, jerks in his hold at every action- when he holds him down by the hips, when he feels Garma bump up against the back of his throat, when he pulls off again to stop himself from gagging- but it's the simple things that really wind him up. Char hums around him in delight when Garma tightens his grip on his hair like promised, Char smiles at him, Char squeezes his hips lightly.

Char glances up at him through his eyelashes, sunk around him to the root, and Garma snaps. 

Pinned by Char’s hands on his hips, thumbs pressing purple welts into his hipbones, hand knotted in Char’s hair and caught in his stare, he cums. His climax is accompanied by the sweetest noise yet, a long exhalation with a weak little warble. He’s utterly pathetic, wrung out like a sponge under Char’s mouth and hands, and maybe he’s developing a complex but Char twitches, so turned on it makes him a bit dizzy with it. Garma’s hands are pulling him up by the lapels with _far_ more strength than Char expects from him as soon as he catches his breath and starts going soft in Char’s mouth, and drags him up and on top of him. Their mouths crash together, Char hovering over Garma’s bare thighs and caging him in, grabbing handfuls of the couch cushions on either side of Garma’s shoulders. He’s feisty, crowding into Char’s space even though he is the one being pinned, and yanks Char’s pants open so aggressively he fears for the button and shoves his hand down the front of them. Garma’s hand against him feels molten, and he groans into their kiss. He didn't even have time to swallow, Garma licking himself out of Char's mouth, and the air around them boils. 

Garma's been good, he supposes, and bites down on Garma's lip like he wants to draw blood. His pulse rushes in his ears, louder than the sound of their lips meeting, louder than Garma murmuring things to him, filthy and compelling.

He could give him this.

He supposes.

Garma sighs in delight like he was the one cumming when Char does, lets Char press his face into his neck and breath in the heavy air. Char, legs _not_ wobbly at all, climbs off him, _not_ -collapsing next to the Zabi on the couch. His lover? Were they lovers now that they'd gotten off together? Garma tips his head and looks at him, dazed, like Char was the only thing that existed. They breath through that strange quiet they always found themselves in. Char is- well not relaxed, more like worn out. Satisfied, maybe.

“Now get out.” Char tells Garma. And just like that the dizzy look on Garma’s face is gone.

“What?!” He splutters. Char ignores him, tugging the Zabi's pants up. Shame to cover the little gifts that Char left him on his thighs, but such was life. 

"Out." He repeats. He digs Garma's shirt out from the crack in the couch cushions, wrinkled as sin, and shoves it into his hands. "Out of my apartment." 

"Wh-?!" Garma doesn't get any further than that before Char has him on his feet, nice jacket zipped up over his bare chest. His belt is still undone. Char's own pants are slipping down his hips a little but he's done his time, his own modesty was second to getting his unwanted guest out of his place so he could sit down and enjoy his post orgasm euphoria in peace.

“You’re going to make me late for work.” He chides, sweeping Garma out the door. “You're distracting. I’ve got to get ready and put away all your _gifts_.”

“Char.” Garma protests, and he looks so adorably cowed, looking over his shoulder as Char all but shoves him out into the hallway. He's barely got his shoes on. It's cute. Char should do this to him more often. “Give a man time to catch his breath.”

“You’re breathing.” And despite his protests Garma laughs at his joke. More of that stupid, infurriating silence fills the air then, Garma adjusting the fall of his (limited) clothing and finally fastening his belt buckle. 

“See you tonight?” Char asks, and thinks fondly of cleaning out his mouth as soon as the door was closed.

“I’ll be there at 10.” He reaches forward and straightens out Garma’s collar in response. 

“Walk me home after?” He requests. Garma nods immediately with wide-eyed innocence, but as soon as he catches Char’s meaning he stammers out an eager affirmative.

Char sends him away with a lingering kiss, and is left with a house full of shopping bags and two dirty dishes in a sink that, until this moment, has only ever held one.


	2. ACT TWO- Char Aznable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is October of the year 0078 of the Universal Century. Garma Zabi is busy. Char Aznable is tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT FANART????!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?  
> https://twitter.com/mobilesuitfungi/status/1353018683593994240?s=19 !!!!????!?!?!?  
> fucking insane. incredible. the lens flares and the sparkles and the EXACT microphone that i have been picturing this entire fic and GARMA’S EXPRESSION. that’s- ooiuoiuoighhhhh…. going insane. im going to print this out and eat it.  
> also uhhh thanks for all the love this fic is getting? i wrote it because I was too poor to buy a present and only published it to ao3 because we were complaining about the charma drought but people are reading it which is wild. so, uh, hello people. please keep commenting I love that shit.  
> this chapter feels a little bit segmented, just a lot of little bits mashed together, but I was trying to kinda show how char is rapidly loosing control of the situation ??? like if last ch was establishing dynamics and etc, this is focused more on the fact that actions have consequences and that char is not acting in a vacuum…  
> oh garma we’re really in it now…  
> ANYWAYS, it gets a little psychological horror in this chapter,,,a little gory,,,so uh, read with discretion….  
> so content warning for graphic violence and blood and just a dash of war-typical/canon typical suicidal ideation right around [vague spoilers] [vague spoilers] [vague spoilers] the announcement of mobilization  
>   
> Also, under advisement i DO want to warn that char DO be sleepin w someone besides garma in this chapter,,,do be gettin a little disloyal,,, so go ahead and skip/skim the jan 3rd section at the end if you dont want to see that, as it is entirely skippable!!!

_OCTOBER, UC 0078._

“What did I say?” Char pauses at the question, mug halfway to his mouth. Artesia closes the front door behind her with a bang.

“I’m not even doing anything.” He gestures incredulously, barely avoiding having coffee slosh out of his cup. “I’m in my pajamas.” Despite his attire, his sister points accusingly at him, waving something that looks like a rolled-up magazine in lieu of pointing with her occupied fingers.

“You said you were going to leave it alone.” Artesia is dressed for a day out- she must have swung by his place on the way to one of her many part-time gigs- but she’s really not the type to read gossip rags, so when she throws her magazine down on the table his attention is immediately drawn to it.

He’s on he front cover.

Garma and Char make a handsome couple, just like he knew they would. Neither of them were really dressed especially nice, not as nice as they were for that night at the restaurant, but there was a charm in candid photos. Both of them let simple errands get away from them and it shows; Garma would never normally have been caught wearing unpressed pants but to Char’s amusement was clearly wearing jeans in the photos. Something that wasn’t as amusing was the fact that he seemed to have no bad angles. The main cover photo- he got a _cover photo_ , how thrilling- was he and Garma in the supermarket. Garma had a foot propped up on the little rack under the shopping cart, looking down at the list Char had surrendered to him halfway through their trip. Char had his head resting over Garma’s shoulder, glancing at the list as well. He remembers doing that, thought it was funny how Garma jolted when Char snagged his fingers into Garma’s belt loops. He flips open to the pages the cover lists in bold- their exposé on Garma and his potential fling- the photos were nothing too bold, nothing hinting at the true nature of he and Garma’s relationship, but it was clear that this was an outing, not the two of them happening to meet. That implied _something_. The text was a little more risqué, describing the way that Garma looked at him when Char’s attention was on something else, droning on for paragraphs about Char putting his hand on Garma’s back to steer him away from another group of shoppers that he didn’t see. Quite frankly, it was ridiculous.

“Do you actually read this garbage?” He asks, pouring over the pages. How they filled four back to back pages of photos of him and Garma was unreal, they weren’t even doing anything interesting in any of them.

“Shut up.” Artesia snaps which meant she _did_ read them, how very interesting, “Do you know what you’ve done?” She continues, “Now you’re stuck like this.”

“Like this?” He echoes.

“Come _on_ , Casval,” She doesn’t take her shoes off when she steps out of the doorway and onto the carpet which was a horrible sign. “You surely didn’t plan to end up-.”

“No.” He turns fully, crosses his arms, “Finish that. End up like what, Artesia?”

“You know.” She scowls, “Cheap entertainment.”

“My rates are anything but cheap.” He jokes, and if anything that makes her scowl harder. If she scolded him about his bad jokes then maybe she would drop the subject of his career.

“You’re better than a shitty dive bar.” Club Eden was not a dive bar, that was just plain untrue-“You’re better than singing in general.” He liked singing, was it a crime for him to have hobbies?- “And it’s not healthy, what you’re doing. You’re working yourself to death.”

“I’m fine.” He says, and tries to make himself believe it when he says it this time. He’s never been that good at lying to his sister.

“You’re pale. When’s the last time you went outside in the daytime?”

“How about we talk about your work habits.” He snips. Who knows how many jobs she was taking, how unsafe all these under-the-table gigs were. If he was putting himself in danger working under contract then what was she doing?

“You don’t let me see you enough to know about my work habits.” She tells him, point blank.

Which…fair enough.

“We’ve been over this, it’s dangerous.” He protests, and knows his argument is flimsy. They’ve had this discussion so many times, it felt like it was the only thing the two of them talked about anymore.

“Who cares about us, Casval. Who on this stupid colony would see us together and put two and two together.” She exclaims

“Lots of people!” The Zabis, any remaining Deikun loyalists who knew basic math, anyone from their fathers old cabinet.

“So what the hell is your excuse for sleeping with Garma then!?”

Well. He did walk right into that one.

“If it’s so dangerous to put ourselves in positions like that, then why are you doing it on purpose?” When Artesia gets angry her face gets blotchy red, and she is undeniably flushed now. She’s furious- usually their arguments don’t dissolve this quickly into shouting- and Char can feel his ire rising to meet hers. “It doesn’t count when it’s you, huh?” She spits. “It doesn’t matter that you have people out there that care about you? You can go and just-.” And she makes a frustrated noise.

It’s quiet for a moment. Char doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.

“Mom’s worried about you.” Artesia says quietly.

“Oh, don’t you dare.” He hisses. “Don’t bring Mother into this.”

“How long has it been since you’ve talked to her?” They’re both yelling now, Char might have to apologize to his neighbors later, but Artesia started it and Char had to end it, as usual.

“You know I can’t be seen with her.” He fights. That was even more suspicious that he and Artesia being together, they had false identities to hide behind, their mother did not and him standing beside his mom would reveal their relation to anyone with brains.

“You could _call her_!” His sister explodes, “You could call your mother so she doesn’t have to sit in that big empty house and wonder what her son is doing every second of the day.”

“A-“

“And now you’re going to fight it because you know I have you backed in a corner even though you know I’m right.” She was right, deep down Char was a coward- has always been a coward- and Artesia sighs, “Why are you so afraid of letting us in? What did we ever do besides love you?”

It hurts. It hurts and he probably deserves it.

“Call your mother, Casval.” Artesia instructs him, voice exhausted.

Char looks her in the eyes and sees nothing but pity, and promises,“I will.”

She stares at him. She looks unbelievably sad. He doesn’t remember when she started looking at him like that, the same face she used to pull when she would write letters to their mother from Side Five only to receive nothing in return. Melancholy- maybe that’s an appropriate word. Grieved. Heartbroken, maybe. Her gaze is heavy. Makes it seem like there’s no one in the world besides her and him, like everything is insignificant, bleeding away into an unimportant background noise of color and movement and sound. It’s just her and him in this place beyond either of their problems, this place between them where their eyes meet. He’s just Casval, not Edouard or Char, and she’s just Artesia, not Sayla or any of the other names she surely uses through her day. Just brother and sister; just people, she and he. And she’s sad. Horribly sad.

He doesn’t know when the looks started, but it’s been so long that he also can’t remember her looking at him any other way.

“No,” She says, and the moment is over. “No you won’t.”

After she leaves Char has to shake the feeling of pins and needles out of his fingertips. After he has those moments will Artesia, the heavy weird ones, he always feels a little drained. Wobbly, in a way he couldn’t really explain in words. The frequency of these episodes was increasing, not enough to be alarming, but enough that he was noticing it. Maybe he was dehydrated.

He pours himself a glass of water. It doesn’t help the headache that is steadily brewing behind his eyes.

He lets Garma walk him home after work on Thursday. It’s four in the morning, so there’s no one to ogle them, no cameras to take their picture. They walk and talk. Garma’s hair looks silver in the artificial moonlight, Char’s a washed-out gold. When Garma shivers, Char takes his jacket off, a nice thick maroon peacoat that the got second-hand, and wraps it around Garma’s shoulders. The Zabi splutters, tries to refuse Char’s generosity, but is easily swayed by Char’s bright smile and his cold fingers teasingly prodding at the flush on the shorter’s soft cheeks. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes, and does so again after Char drops a kiss on his unprepared lips, only drawing away to button the gifted jacket. When they continue along, Garma does look considerably warmer, especially in the cheeks.

No one sees this, of course. It’s four in the morning. There’s no one on the streets, there’s no cameras.

The two of them walk hand in hand.

No one see’s this.

It looks nice, regardless.

“Char Aznable?” The man who has just sat at the bar asks. He looked distinctly nervous, and had sat down with a forced nonchalance that betrayed his intentions. Had Char not been watching him since he walked in the door, he might have been caught off guard.

“That would be me.” And he leans back against the wood shelving that the bartender displayed his liquor on. He was covering a shift- he hated bartending most days, but this was proving to be something interesting. “What can I do for you, Mr. Journalist?” He asks.

“Ah.” The man says, like he wasn’t expecting Char to notice the little notebook he had been jotting things down in before he had approached the bar. “I thought you were supposed to be out on the stage?”

Char gestures to the trio onstage. They’re a group that comes in every once and while, not often enough for Char to have learned their names. He respects their tight harmonies but shakes his head at their work ethic. “It’s never fun for someone to admit their faults,” he smiles indulgently, “but I can’t sing in their key.”

“Here, babe.” What looks like a tableful of empty glasses is set on the countertop by one of the regulars. She wasn’t a regular _customer_ , no, rather she was one of the few sex workers brave enough to consistently venture into Club Eden to look for a mark. Char definitely scared away all the working men, he dominated that niche here, but the working women had been getting bolder lately with Char drawing larger and larger crowds as his popularity grows. The woman who has dropped the dirty dishes on the counter is one of his favorites. She isn’t afraid to complain about Char’s quote unquote “man-eating” to his face and she had a left-hook to rival Char’s own. Char found her charming. She digs an unlit cigarette out from behind her ear, speaks around it when she talks. “And now don’t expect me to play bus boy for you- I’m working.”

“Good hunting.” He offers blandly. He leans in and lights her cigarette for her. The way she was dressed, she didn’t have anywhere to keep a lighter. “Congratulations.” He gestures to the tip she had dropped on the counter to deliver the glasses.

“If you showed some tit you could make this much with your eyes closed.” She tucks the bills into her bra, exposed by the wide neckline and low plunge of her shirt.

“Is this not enough?” He gestures to the loose collar of his own attire.

“You’re flashing an ankle here, babe.” She takes a deep pull from her cigarette and when she takes it from her lips to tap it the ashtray to on the counter her lipstick has stamped the white paper with a vibrant pink. She exhales, blows smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from Char and the reporter and looks at him with a serious expression. “Show some tit.” She gestures for emphasis. He definitely doesn’t have the chest her motion implied. She leaves him with that sage advice. As he gathers the empty glasses the woman had left for him he throws a glance at his uninvited guest, who seems to have taken this interaction in with fascinated eyes.

“I’m a performer and an employee.” Char explains, answering his earlier question.

“I see.” But his eyes follow the woman as she walks away. Typical.

“She’s on the clock tonight.” Char offers, “I could put in a good word for you, if you’d like.”

“No, aha, no thank you.” The journalist declines. Now that Char has called out his obvious staring he seems even more nervous than he did as he approached the bar.

“Can I get you anything then?” He doesn’t specify that the anything he’s offering has to be of the drink variety, and the man gets a look in his eye, falling for Char’s bait perfectly. Good, he wanted to get this over with before he had to play tonight.

“If you don’t mind, what I’d like from you is a statement or two.”

“Me?” He says, in faux-confusion. Truly, he didn’t know why this man was hounding him for an interview when all he did was stand next to Garma Zabi in public, but to each their own, he supposes.

“Yes.” The man continues, “You were recently seen out in the city with Garma Zabi, care to comment?”

“With Garma?” He says this to give the man time to open his little notebook and put his pen to the paper. He writes something, but his handwriting is so illegible hat Char can’t read it from upside-down. Ah well, it was a thought. “Yes, we went out together.” He keeps his terminology vague, not the truth but not a lie. “I don’t think it’s very noteworthy.”

“Nonsense. Zeon loves him, anything that he does will be talked about somewhere. You didn’t stop to consider that?”

“I didn’t really think about it, no.” Char lies.

“So,” and he jots something down, “what were you doing together?”

“I don’t have a car.” The honesty is almost refreshing. “He offered to drive me across town.”

“To do what?”

“Just some errands.” He wipes down a glass. “The infrastructure is terrible now that they finished all those new additions- when was that, a year ago?” It’s pointless chatter, but it’s purpose isn’t to entertain, but to distract. Char doesn’t need this man to know everything about what happed between him and Garma that day- the flowers, the shopping, what happened after that- “All the sidewalks got taken out.”

“That happened down here too?” He falls for Char’s misdirection perfectly. “I live over across the bridge, I didn’t know the construction got all the way out here.”

“Mn.” He hums agreeably. “Housing and such.” They were always doing construction. Side Three was the most populous Side after all.

“Where were we?” The audience claps, the trio of women on stage bowing. They were near the end of their set, Char would have to finish this quickly.

“He drove me.” Char reminds.

“Ah, yes.” Another thing written down in the notebook. “Very nice of him,” And he glances up at Char with dark eyes. “Close, are you?”

“I’d say we’re friends.” They both knew what the man was implying, but he would have to ask directly for that kind of admission. “We talk when he comes to my shows.”

“And does he frequent Club Eden? Is he here often?”

“I couldn’t say.” He dodges “I’m only here specific times. I don’t know what he’s up to when I’m not here.”

“But he’s come to watch you multiple times?” Now this was a dance that Char was familiar with. No matter how mousey and nervous the man was, a reporter was still a reporter.

“Well, sure.” Char moves onto drying his final glass. He doesn’t need to look down at it, so he keeps his eyes on the journalist. “I’m biased, but I’d say I’m good enough to make a repeat customer out of him.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to doubt your talents,“ there’s a slight pause before ‘talents’ that makes Char bristle- what was this hack implying about him?- “I just wanted to know.”

“Well,” and he sets the glass he was drying down, back into its proper little cubby hidden by the counter. “I wouldn’t get into the car with a complete stranger.”

“You’re right, of course, that makes sense.”

“I thought it was funny.” He admits, “I never thought I’d make the front page for something as civilian as shopping.” He’d rather not make the front page at all, if his ideas for the future came to pass then he would get no credit for any of it and take no blame either.

“So you saw our publication?” The man says, pleased.

“I did.” He smiles, puts a little heat in it. “Will you be taking photos today, Mr. Journalist?”

“No, no.” He assures.

They are interrupted by the usual bartender stepping back behind the counter. “Thanks for covering for me.” He rubs the back of his neck, “I know you don’t like to cut it this close.”

“It’s fine.” He assures, and steps to the side, lets the man get back into his normal spot. “You worry about me too much.” He leaves the tips he made in the jar, the bartender needed them more than Char, and the singer spares a smile at the reporter after he steps out from behind the counter.

“If you’d excuse me, I have to step backstage.” He says. The man takes him in, able to see all of Char for the first time, and so close. Char tries not to smile. Men were so predictable. “Stay and watch the show, yeah? I’ll sing something for you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t-.” And he stops when Char puts a hand on his shoulder. Char likes employing this gesture, it was versatile. It could mean that you were about to be tugged around and slugged in the face, it could mean that someone felt camaraderie with you, it could just be a call for attention. It was also a nice easy place for Char to cling, to get eyes on him with a physical touch and then up the charm.

“Please, I insist.” He says. “You can’t write about me unless you get the full experience.”

“Ah.” And the man looks nervous again, but in a different way. “I suppose a song couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll make it a good one.” He promises, and withdraws his hand. He always does.

He gets a glowing review- something that’s more free show promotion by a charmed fan than Char giving a statement about he and Garma Zabi’s relationship- exactly as he intended. Later in the afternoon the piece runs Char gets contacted about reserving a booth at Club Eden for an actual reputable arts publication. It feels nice being appreciated.

You know it’s been a long night when you sit and consider quitting at the end. There’s nothing that is really keeping him here, he supposes. He started working here because his mother had worked here, all the people he knew that could hide him while he got back on his feet were in Club Eden. He learned to sing because it was a skill that he didn’t need money to pursue and it was a business he had an easy way into. It didn’t pay well, and it was a little humiliating having your job be standing behind a microphone and looking pretty, but it was what he was doing and he refused to do something halfway. And as committed he was to it, to Char music was rather unfulfilling. He had no great passion for it, but he enjoys it the same way he would enjoys cooking food or building something. It was a means to an end. He could enjoy parts of it, sure, but what he was really trying to do was get a satisfactory end result- cooking yielded a meal, building yielded a possession, singing yielded people’s misguided affections and their wallets.

Sometimes people ask him what he thinks about when he sings, if he is picturing something to go along with the words. There is never a point when he’s on stage that he’s not thinking, but his answer is not the one they want, the ‘drawing from my emotions and past memories’ sentimental bullshit. Char is always thinking, always planning. When he can take his next breath, singing in the right key, making sure he was using his diaphragm, how far he had to be from the microphone to be amplified but not too hot, the temperament of the crowd, the instruments the musicians had on them today and what songs he could sing with what combinations. It was all mechanical, it was technical skill that set Char apart not some inherited talent. So, unlike a genius or a prodigy, he had to practice. He’s practicing now actually. The club has been empty for hours and no one will be here until one in the afternoon to start setting things up for the next workday. So it’s just Char and the music he makes, practicing.

He hasn’t had much time to lately, with all the gigs he’s been taking. Luckily Garma seems just as busy with his own affairs so there’s no juggling to do on his end there. Performance itself is a form of practicing but in a performance Char can’t be anything but perfect and can only play a song from beginning to end. So it’s nice to be here and practicing alone. He can make mistakes here and it would stay between himself and the piano.

Maybe he should right his own music? That would be something to do. Something that was more interesting than endless repetition. He puts his fingers to the keys and plods out something that he’s never played before- plays the little snippet again and tweaks it some- and then writes it down. It sounds awful. He lets his head rest on the keys in exhaustion and even that a sounds better than what he just came up with. Was this how people wrote music? He closes his eyes and breathes, focuses on that instead of the uncertainty and unhappiness that linger in the back of his mind. He breathes, clearing his mind of all his scattered thoughts and worries, and then breathes some more until he feels a little more secure in himself. And then he jolts at a touch on his shoulder and spins around, throwing a punch on reflex.

“Fuck!” The owner exclaims, stumbling back. He dodged, but just barely, and in his haste he ends up half sprawled back over the nearest table. The room is brighter than when he rested his head down and no one was supposed to be here until one. He must have fallen asleep.

“Sorry.” Char apologizes, “I’m a little jumpy.”

Char is too tired after his performance for the art critic to do anything the scant hours of free time he had, choosing to relax at home. This is of little consequence, besides the fact that the isn’t able to read the review of his show. He knows the gist though, because when he steps behind the microphone the next night the crowd is almost double the normal size.

‘Good morning’ Garma messages.

‘Good morning’ Char writes back, for the first time. ’Sleep well?’

He’s out of salt. It’s inconvenient and it’s annoying so Char goes to the store. It’s empty, but all around him he hears vague conversation and the sound of creaky shopping cart wheels. And he continues to see no one, past the card displays and past the pharmacy and past the produce and the frozen foods until he finds the right aisle. He only needed one container but he grabbed a basket at the front anyways, so he sets it down gently and then straightens and reaches for his prize.

“Char.” He stills at Garma’s voice, and turns just in time to see a glimpse of purple hair.

“Garma?” Char’s eyebrows furrow. Garma has apparently gone into the next aisle and called Char’s name as he passed. His own call might have been lost in the ambient buzz of the store around them so he repeats, “Garma?” There’s no response, so he grabs his hand basket off the floor and walks to the end of the aisle. The frozen goods coolers cast a strange light on the endcaps, some of them are even flickering slightly, and it washes out all his surroundings and leeches them of their color. One thing stands out in brilliant detail against the spotless off-white floors; a droplet of blood. He squats next to it, peers at it curiously. It is indeed blood, not a stray drop of paint or something, and it has splattered thinly against the ground like it fell from a decent height. Why was their blood on the store of the supermarket?

“Char.” Garma says again, and this time when Char looks up he just gets the ends of his uniform cape flickering out of sight and into the baking aisle.

“Garma, wait up.” He calls. He leaves the blood- there were surely employees somewhere he could flag down later- and rounds the corner. The baking aisle always smells a bit like marshmallows or something else dry and sugary, and it always sets his teeth on edge. Garma isn’t there, but there’s another droplet of blood by his feet, and anther further in. The one in the center of the aisle has been stepped on so calling it a bloody partial bootprint would be more accurate. The tread the boot’s sole has left is in a boring pattern- military standard. “Where’d you go?” He asks himself.

“Char, I’m over here.” Garma answers, and Char doesn’t see anything this time, he hears footsteps walking away. The end of the section faces out into the home goods and kitchen utensils. He doesn’t see Garma, but he does she a bloody smear across a row of boxed up stand mixers. When he goes to examine it closer it has five distinct streaks, clearly the shape of someone’s hand running across the boxes. At the very end of the mark right where the little finger came to a stop a bead of excess blood rolls down the boxes surface. The blood was fresh.

“Hello?” He calls out into the store. They’re playing an annoying jingle on the radio. A kid is pitching a fit somewhere in the distance. He sees no one, and has seen no one this whole time.

“Hurry up, Char.” The only thing that hints at where Garma’s voice is coming from is a lemon juicer hanging on a peg. It sways in an otherwise still scene. He moves towards it cautiously. He walks past aisle openings- pots and pans, mixing bowls, coffee mugs- and out of the corner of his eye as he sees him, standing in front of the novelty saltshakers. 

He stills. Garma is still there out of the corner of his eye. He’s moved too far forward so he can’t see him too clearly, but he doesn’t seem to be doing anything. He’s motionless and he’s staring at Char. For some reason, as chills roll down his spine, he’s glad that he can’t make out the expression on his face.

“Char.” Garma calls, and he still doesn’t move, content to let Char watch him out of the very corner of his peripheral. When he opens his mouth the smell of copper hits the air and Char hears a faint _drip-drip-drip_ from Garma's direction, sees the skin under his mouth change from a blur of white to a blur of carmine.

He turns. There’s no one there, just blood on the floor.

“Char, I’m here.” Garma says, right behind him. Char doesn’t turn. They’re boxed in on either sides by rows and rows of utensils and cooking apparatuses like sieves and mandolins and zesters- or they _were_ \- now all that seems to be for sale are knives.

“Do you know what you want?” Garma asks, voice a whisper against the back of Char’s neck. Hands wrap around his hips loosely.

“No.” He whispers back.

“That’s okay.” Char feels something bubble up in his throat, knees buckling as he coughs so hard it brings him to the ground. “That’s fine.” Blood splatters from his mouth and into his open palm. Garma, unseen, squats beside him and rubs his back soothingly. “Stay with me.” He purrs. Char chokes.

(Char wakes up and smells his own breath cautiously. No trace of blood, but his throat feels raw from coughing that he only did in his dreams.)

Garma keeps rescheduling their dates. He's gotten busy, he claims, which is fine because Char has been busy too, but in a strange way Char misses him. So next time he claims to be buried in paperwork Char asks to come by the Estate and spend time with him anyways.

"You went shopping with me," Char points out, and Garma scowls, "Now I get to sit and do paperwork with you." There's no good argument against him, so Char finds himself at his old house again. He's been here a few times now, led to Garma's personal wing and to whatever room he was in by someone Garma sent to fetch him, but there's no one waiting for him today. Perhaps Garma trusted him enough to not get lost. It was a fair assumption, Char knew where Garma was and he could get there by himself, but he takes the long way, trying to map out the parts he didn't know and fit them together in the larger layout map inside his mind. He does after his bit of mainly harmless wandering find his way to Garma's private quarters. He knocks once and then enters. Garma's room is nice, decorated tastefully if not a little on the overly ornate side. He has a four poster bed and a lovely view out into the grounds and a private bathroom across the room for a cramped little office space. The space could be less cramped, there was plenty of room to either side, it was probably just set up that way out of convenience, not having to go too far to grab what you needed. 

"You look exhausted." Garma says after he looks up from his stately little desk. He did seem to have a lot of paperwork, not that Char had thought he was lying, but it's funny. Garma looks every part the frazzled secretary.

"You're supposed to tell me I look pretty." Char complains. Garma greets him with a kiss, soft and chaste.

"You always look pretty, stop fishing for compliments." Garma tells him, and steers him towards the bed. 

"How forward of you." Char teases, and Garma pouts.

"You're taking a nap." He tells him. "You look like you're not sleeping well."

"I'm not." Char admits, thinking of his frequent dreams and of the constant headache that he had and of the long hours behind the piano he was pulling.

"You're useless to me this worn out." Garma tells him, but he blushes when he says it, so Char know he means it more like concern than like a complaint.

"This is a shitty date." But even as he says it, Char climbs under the covers. Garma had sheets with the highest thread count that Char had ever felt, he'd wanted to sleep in this godforsaken bed ever since he first saw it. Now was his chance, and he wasn't going to miss it. And Garma was unfortunately right. He was exhausted, he could feel the stretch of the skin under his eyes, which was never a good sign. His head hits the pillow and he yawns immediately. Garma makes no move to join him like he half thought he would, just smiles indulgently and returns to his work.

"Now, you better go to sleep." Garma warns, "I'll wake you after I'm finished, I promise."

Char sleeps.

He doesn't know when he started honoring the promises of a Zabi.

It's impossible to say how long Char naps. What is possible to say, however, is that recently Char has been rather jumpy. 

Garma puts a gentle hand on his shoulder to rouse him. 

Char jolts awake and swings.

Garma’s hand on his shoulder roused him, yes, but his fist landing a solid hit on Garma’s pretty face is what really wakes him up. He blinks at Garma, who has taken a few stumbling steps back in shock, and equally wide eyes blink back at him over the hand covering the middle section of his face.

“Is your hand okay?” Garma asks, and, as if on cue, a dark bead of blood rolls down from his cupid’s bow and over his lips.

“Oh,” And Char, rather dumbly, points. “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?!” Garma yelps, and then he seems to finally get some of it in his mouth and realize that did indeed have a nosebleed because he and Char scramble for the box of tissues on the desk at the same time.

Char threatens Garma until he lets him take care of him, wiping the blood away and pressing a tissue under his nose. They go through a few in silence, Garma wincing and Char failing to avoid getting Garma’s blood on his hands. Char squints, “Your eye is bruising.”

“Char, it’s fine.” Garma assures him, but his eyes watering in pain out him in a lie.

“Your brother is going to kill me.” Forget Dozel, there was a worse option. “Kycilia’s going to kill me.”

“It’s fine.” Garma says again, muffled around the tissue Char is practically gagging him with.

“I broke-.”

“We’d be able to tell if it was broken, calm yourself.” Garma dismisses, and Char presses a little harder, just to shut him up.

“Doesn’t change the fact that your sister is going to skin me alive.”

“She wouldn’t.” Another soaked tissue gets thrown in the garbage with a disgusting splat. Garma’s blood had stained the soft skin around his nails, his cuticles and such, an earthy red-brown.

“I’m pretty sure she would.”

“Okay, she’s protective,” Garma admits, because all of Zeon knows the pedestal that Dozel and Kycilia put the youngest Zabi on, “but she wouldn’t hurt my-….” And Garma trails off, eyes darting away awkwardly. Char is drawn into that silence, and he just barley catches a falling bead of blood before it splashes against the light linens, too drawn in by Garma’s embarrassment to focus on what his hands were doing. He daubs the blood trail away gently.

“Your what?” Char asks, voice low and intent. He’s curious, what does Garma think the two of them are to each other? The dates implied ‘boyfriend’ but the secrecy threw that off a bit. Was he technically a mistress???? Was Garma even gay? Okay, no, Garma definitely liked men, that was very apparent, but would that be tolerated by the Zabi family and by Zeon as a whole? Wouldn’t Garma have been raised with the expectation of one day continuing the family line? In Garma’s mind, where did his relationship with Char fit in?

“Well-!” Garma says, but comes out clearly louder than he means to in his anxiousness, and he swallows dryly. Char watches the bob of his throat, and when he glances back up, Garma is watching him. One of his eyes is puffy and a tad swollen, so his gaze is a bit lopsided, but it is searching nonetheless.

“Well?” He prompts.

“Well, we’re… _together_.” Garma fidgets awkwardly, and Char entwines his free hand with one of his. To give him something to hold onto to stop his squirming, not because Char thinks he’s cute. Obviously.

“I certainly haven’t been seeing other people.” And some of the tension in Garma’s shoulders melts away. He raises an eyebrow incredulously, “Did you think I was?”

“I don’t know! No?” He blushes, and it is the same color as the flush of blood to his swelling nose. “We never talked about it.”

“We’re talking about it now.” Garma bites his lip and grimaces when he gets a taste of the blood there.

“I’d like to be your boyfriend.” He says seriously, and his caution makes Char smile. He’d say yes no matter what Garma called them, it was just a title in the grander scheme of things, but the pull to tease is strong when Garma looks so vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” he wheedles, “It’s all so sudden.”

“I take it back.” Garma says immediately, but he flushes darker in obvious embarrassment, “I want nothing to do with you.”

“You wish.” Free range of Garma’s wing of the Zabi Estate, affirming his place in Garma’s life, and becoming close enough that Garma was comfortable enough to outright tease him right back? He mentally pats himself on the back, he’s made good progress today.

“Garma,” He says, and smiles, “Boyfriends it is.”

“Boyfriends.” Garma echoes, blinking wide doe-eyes back at him. But there’s a note of something odd in there. Discontentment?

“What’s the face for? Something wrong?” And Garma ‘eep’s nervously in that way that he does when Char catches him in a half-truth.

“No!” He assures, “I’m ecstatic! ‘Boyfriends’ just sounds so…” and his lips curl, “juvenile.”

“Neither of us are even 20 yet.” Char reminds, and Garma flushes and glances away.

“Still!” And Char laughs. He seems to be doing that more often nowadays. When he grabs a new tissue, Garma presses it to his nose himself. The old one comes away with less blood than he expected, so it must be dying down. Good, because Char’s hand was starting to really ache.

“Forgive me, your Highness, if I want to be called someone’s boyfriend at least once.” Garma shoots him a look, and he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I know, I know, I’ll stop calling you that.”

“No, not that.” His eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“What? That I’m excited? I’ve never dated anyone before, is it so wrong to be enthusiastic about it?”

“*That*.” And there’s that intense look again. “You’ve never dated before?”

“Is that not what you were expecting?” Char laughs.

“Mn.” Garma hums from behind his tissue, but that intense look, Char recognizes it now.

“Stop.” And he smacks Garma’s shoulder lightly in reprimand. “You have blood all over your face, we’re not kissing.”

“You can’t just tell me that I’m the first guy you’ve ever dated and expect me not to kiss you.” The prince pouts, but he settles back down.

“Nose good now?” Char asks, and Garma moves his head around cautiously, and pokes at the bridge of his nose, tissue hesitantly pulled away.

“Seems like.” Char won’t tell him this, but the dark glossy sheen of his eyes oddly suits the bruise blooming to life under one of them.

“Good.” And he raises his hand, stiff and slightly swollen, soaked in Garma’s own blood and says: “Because I think I broke my hand.”

There’s a silent moment here. Char’s hand throbs in time with his heartbeat. It’s mildly concerning.

“And you didn’t mention this earlier!?” Garma shrieks. Despite all their efforts, he starts bleeding again, red blooming against the pale bedsheets when he lets blood drip from his chin as he calls Char a self sacrificing idiot in as many words as he can.

Char just smiles and nods at him and hands him a tissue when he’s done.

(Garma drives Char to a hospital. When the x-rays come back and reveal that Char has not broken his hand and just has two busted knuckles, Garma breathes a sigh of relief but still smacks him on the shoulder so hard that it makes the doctor scold him. Char laughs so hard he gets lightheaded.)

(If anyone were to ask, Garma would cite today as the day he fell in love.)

Boyfriends.

Char stays late at the Club again. He originally plans to take all the empty bottles into the alley and smash them to vent his frustration, but instead he sits at the piano, no desire to destroy anything. Instead he composes.

While he can make his way through Garma’s personal wing of the estate no problem, Garma has to lead him through all other parts of the house. Today Garma wants to go on a walk with him through the elaborate gardens surrounding the Zabi’s estate. He’s in the middle off telling him about how apparently his eldest brother Gihren is the one that tends to all the plants- and isn’t that an interesting thought, Gihren, the most severe and cutthroat Zabi was a hobby gardener- when another one of Garma’s siblings makes an appearance.

Kycilia Zabi is Zeon’s spymaster and the only daughter of it’s leader. She was harsh and to the point, which got her both respect and fear. Those who hated her stayed quiet. If put in a line the Zabi siblings all looked like siblings, yes, but there also had their differences, Kycilia’s being her vibrant orange hair. It suits her the most, Char privately thinks, Garma would make a lousy ginger and Kycilia was too violent to boast Garma’s own soft lavender. She walks with the firm established stride of a military commander, uniform cape fluttering around her shoulders, and the smaller woman that she is talking to has to walk at a brisk trot to keep up. As soon as he drags his attention away from Kycilia his eyes get stuck on the woman at her side like glue.

She is the most breathtaking girl that Char has ever seen.

She’s Char’s physical antithesis in every way- Her skin is dark, and where his hair is short and blonde with a wavy volume hers falls flat and sleek down her back so black it shines blue in the light. He’s tall, she’s short, her eyes wide and innocent, his narrow and distrustful, him covered and her bare, bare at the neck where the collar of her dress sits in an ill-fitting plunge and arms bare where they come from her short bell sleeves and legs bare from the hem of her sundress down to the flimsy flats on he feet. And her eyes.

Her eyes are the most vibrant green.

She’s looking at him. Not only was she looking at him, he realized, but there was something different about the way she was doing it. Her maddening eyes are unwavering- it almost made his skin itch. His headache was coming back.

“Good evening, Kycilia.” Char’s escort says, and it drags him to the present moment, as the demon of his childhood nightmares smiles at her brother.

“Garma,” She greets, and turns and snidely says, “and guest.” And oh, if she wasn’t who she was Char might’ve even liked her.

“Char Aznable,” Char isn’t saying it for the benefit of Kycilia, more for the woman at her side. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“I’m aware.” The elder Zabi hums, dismissive. “And I have no need for flattery from a jazz club singer.”

“Sister.” Garma scolds, and Char laughs.

“She’s right, you know.” He says, and Garma huffs, tucking hair behind his ear.

Her name is Lalah Sune. Char knows it like he knows is own. Her name is Lalah Sune, and they’ve never met before but he knows her, knows her like one knows their own muscle memory.

[Lalah Sune.] Is her name, he practically hears a fourth voice say it. Lalah’s eyes brighten when their gazes meet again, and she smiles. Then she tips her head slightly to the side, slim eyebrow barely raised. He can almost hear that voice again, her voice, what his mind has decided her voice must sound like; [Char Aznable? Are you sure?]

‘For now’, he thinks, a rueful joke, and gets the distinct impression that someone is laughing at him. Or rather, with him.

Lalah Sune....

He composes.

“Are you free Thursday?” They rarely get alone time together in Club Eden anymore because of Char’s rapidly growing popularity putting his attentions in such high demand, but Garma has never complained. They’re together now, Garma with a hand on his thigh.

“No I’m not,” Char hums, amused, “But I can be. What do you have planned for us?”

“There’s an event being held by my family.” It’s obvious to tell how excited about this Garma is, and the wide enthusiastic look in his eye makes Char want to pinch at his cheeks. “Every invite allows a plus one.” He hints.

“I’m sure you don’t need an invite to your own event.”

“You know what I mean.” Garma’s hand leaves his thigh- unfortunate- and instead comes up to hold the hand resting on the tabletop- adequate. “Come with me?”

“You really want me as your date?”

“Well, we’re dating aren’t we?”

“Yes,” And he gestures with their joined hands, “but isn’t there rather some beautiful woman that should hanging off your arm instead?”

“Yes.” Garma tells him honestly. And then he smiles. Char feels a little floaty when he does. “But I’d rather have you.”

Casval is sitting, watching the surface of a lake. He remembers this place, it was behind the houseand he and his sister used to swim here when the weather got too hot. Artesia didn’t know how yet, but Father had taught Casval to swim here. He sits on a little edge, where the ground abruptly stops in a mini cliff face and continues a bit lower, slopes down to the water. And then his view is taken up by his sister’s scowling face.

“___, _____, ___’_ ___ ____ __?” Her lips wrap around words that Casval can’t hear. The water moves and laps at the shore, he can hear that, he can hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees. But Artesia doesn’t make a sound. She looks around six, which puts Casval at around the age he guessed earlier. She looks frustrated, so she was probably calling for him for a while but he couldn’t hear it so he functionally ignored her. He feels a bit bad.

“Artesia.” He says, because he has no idea what she’s saying. She puts her hands on her hips- cute- and her little pigtails sway.

“____?” She says either ‘yeah’ or ‘what’, he can’t quite tell, but he smiles at her anyways.

“Come with me.” He requests, and holds his hand out for her to hold. She takes it without hesitation. They walk together the remainder of the way to the lake’s edge, feet crunching over the loose stones that function as its banks. Casval bends and picks up a nice skipping rock.

Casval skips his stone. It bounces three times before falling beneath the surface with a plop.

“____ ___ _____!” Artesia cheers, clapping. Her eyes are eager, practically sparkling with delight.

“It was nothing.” He shrugs, hoping he was inferring what she was saying correctly.

“_____ __! ____ __ ___, ______!” She tugs on his sleeve. “_ ____ __ ____ ______ ___.”

She stoops, plucks a random rock from the ground and twists into a rough imitation of Casval’s stance. She throws her rock, and that’s what it really is, a throw, not a skip, and sighs noiselessly when it plops into the lake.

“Here.” Casval says, and kneels down to find a better rock. “You want it to be smooth and flat.” He shows her a good one and sticks his hand out, miming the rock skimming the waters surface on the palm of his hand. “The shape is better.”

“________!” Artesia says, and Casval can lipread that one easily: “Ohhhhh!” She finds her own stone, holding it up for Casval’s okay, and then looks at him eagerly for the next step.

“Now you throw it.” He says, standing. “You arm goes like this.” He mimes the awkward throwing motion.

His sister must have said something, because she looks over her shoulder at him as if waiting for an answer. Probably wondering if she was doing it right. He does a wide circle around her and she pretends to throw. It’s pretty good for someone her age.

“Try it for real.” He cues, and skips his rock. He only gets two bounces this time, barely a skip at all. It’s better than Artesia, who throws correctly but hits the water at the wrong angle and her stone sinks immediately.

“Here, try again.” Casval tells her, handing her another rock. “It’s hard.” And he kneels to find his own. He buzzes a few across the lakes surface while she practices. When she finally get it she throws her arms into the air and whoops silently. She points out at the lake’s surface where the trio of ripples are fading.

“___ ____?!” She exclaims. Casval cheers, holds his hand out for a high-five which she delivers with a resounding smack.

“Good job!” He tells her and she beams, colliding into his chest in a hug.

Casval hasn’t hugged his sister in a long time.

They watch the lake, arms wrapped around each other. A fish jumps. Artesia’s ripples are gone.

“I wish we could be like this.” Char says, voice rough in the cool air.

“Yeah.” Sayla says. The pond Char taught her to skip stones on got filled in years ago.

“This is nice.” Garma compliments. It's the night of the event Garma invited him to. Garma is dressed in his military uniform but Char had to wear a suit as he was not military whatsoever. He chose something striking, a deep dark red with a matching waistcoat under solely for the point of accentuating his chest. 

“Well, you’re the one who bought it.” Char tells him. “All the extra money I make is because of you, you know.”

“I have good taste.” He tugs on the ends of his suit jacket teasingly.

Garma is in rare form tonight, the perfect example of what the youngest son of the Zabi family should be. Char couldn’t quite tell if it was charming or annoying. Maybe he would decide when he got a few drinks in.

“Wait.” He requests, and tugs his tie loose. He grasps the end of it and places it against Garma’s chest. It wasn’t perfect match, being made of different materials, but the color was the same, just as Char intended. “Good, I thought I went too dark.” He says, mainly to himself. Garma breaks his facade for a moment and blushes, twirls his hair.

“You’re unbelievable.” Garma tells him, and Char tucks his tie back in. “I can’t believe you’re wearing green and red and you don’t look like a Christmas monstrosity.”

“It’s maroon and forest green.” Char tells him, and then pauses. “Or maybe mauve and ivy.” He smiles at Garma's slight scowl. “Forgive me for not remembering, I tried a lot of suits on this week.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Garma complains, and abandons Chat to fiddle with how his hair lay in the mirror hung on his wall.

“No.” He peers over Garma’s shoulder at the mirror. There’s room beside him, it’s a big mirror, but Garma would appreciate the closeness. “If I took you you’d buy them all for me.”

“If you tried them on doesn’t that mean you like them? Then why shouldn’t I buy them for you?” God, Garma was just like a spoiled little kid with a new pet. Overly doting to the point of suffocating. Charming? Or annoying?

“I don’t need six red suits.” He sweeps his hair behind his ear a little more, shows off the earrings Garma bought him.

“I think you look handsome.” Garma sniffs, upturns his nose like he’s dissing Char and not flattering him.

“You’re cute.” Char hums, and presses a kiss to Garma’s cheek. “Now, shall we? We don’t want to be late to your own party.”

“You’re just like them, you know.” Garma sighs, but abandons the mirror to put on his shoes.

“Like who?”

“My family.” Garma tells him, and Char grimaces behind his back. “They’re always rushing me too.”

“Not rushing,” Char corrects, “keeping us punctual.”

“I’ll have to introduce you to them tonight.”

“A meet-the-parents already, huh?” He teases.

“Shut up.” Garma sighs, long-sufferingly. “I don’t ever bring people to things like these, they’re going to want to meet you anyways.”

“What happened to the beautiful girl you were supposed to bring?”

“Oh, I lied.” Garma says with a mischievous smile over his shoulder. “I just really wanted to invite you.”

“Sap.” Char opens the door, and he and Garma head out into the hall.

The party being held in Garma’s house affords them the privilege of not having to arrive through the front entrance. They use the back door, slide in without being noticed. Char’s never been to one of these events as a guest, only as entertainment, and it makes him feel a bit out of place. Garma, perhaps sensing his nerves, grabs two flutes of champagne from a waiter and hands one to him. They make their way slowly from the edges of the crowd to the center, Garma twisting a path that leads from person to person. He seems to know who most everyone is, greets them by name and asks about a personal thing or two- the health of a sick relative, asks after their children or siblings, inquires about how they’re settling after a promotion. And he pulls Char into each conversation effortlessly, introducing him with a casual ‘and this is Char, my date’ or ‘and this is Char Aznable, he’s with me this evening’. It’s honestly a pleasure to watch him work. Maybe this is why Garma keeps coming to Club Eden even though he’s heard most of the songs Char knows and has to watch him flirt with other people. Did he look this good when he was in his element?

Garma draws people in like a moth to flame, and eventually he and Char are having separate conversations. Garma has introduced him to some very interesting people, said their names in a way that sounded normal but Char understood. These were the people that he personally should schmooze, Garma had everything planned out. How thoughtful of him, providing Char with entertainment while he worked the room.

“If you’d excuse us.” Garma says graciously, and he and Char leave their little bubble, and Garma smiles.

“Kycilia.” He greets. Char didn’t even know she was coming in a crowd this size but Garma seemed to know exactly who was where, and seemed to be even more fine turned to the movements of his family.

“You were late.” Kycilia says. Her voice has a mocking little lilt to it, one that Char remembers employing countless times on Artesia.

“I was perfectly punctual.” Garma sniffs, and he fiddles with his cufflinks.

“On time is late.” And then she turns, barely. “Aznable.” She greets.

“Ma’am.” He says, not sure what else to call her, “Wonderful to see you again.”

“When we met you struck me as someone sensible,” she says, “but clearly I misread you if you’ve allowed yourself to be dragged to this pointless little ceremony.”

“Kycilia.” Garma hisses.

“I’ve told Gihren to his face that I detest his need to turn everything into a grandiose spectacle.” As she says this she sniffs and turns her nose up. Char has seen Garma do that exact gesture.

“It’s good for moral.” Garma argues.

“It’s bad for the budget.” She retorts.

“What ceremony?” Char asks, thoroughly confused.

“Ah,” She smiles a politicians-smile, “Good to know our Garma isn’t sharing secrets.” Garma looks like he’s about to say something but she muscles on, “It’s what I came here for, Father wants you to stand with us.”

“Oh,” Garma says, forgetting whatever protest he was about to air, “But-.”

“I’ll hold your drink.” Char offers.

“Excellent.” Kycilia says before Garma can speak, plucking the champagne flute from her brothers hand and thrusting it into Char’s own. “Come along, brother.”

“I’ll be back.” Garma promises, steps in close and catches his hand only to squeeze it reassuringly and let go to follow his sister. Two Zabi’s moving together catches attention and the room drops a few decibels. They’re in the throne room, what once was the place Char’s father held his assembly. Theres two daises, one all the way against the wall which holds Degwin Zabi’s throne, now empty, and down a few short stairs is a wider platform that someone has erected a podium on. Most likely, Gihren Zabi was going to give a speech. But about what, what topic warranted a whole gala instead of just a recorded public address, he didn’t know. There are grand purple curtains behind the throne, and one parts, revealing the last two Zabi siblings, who join their siblings before the podium. Dozel stands to one side and Kycilia and Garma stand to the other, Gihren behind the central podium. He brings nothing, no notes, no cue cards, and silence is cast over the gathered people without Gihren making a single movement to silence them. Char wordlessly downs Garma’s drink.

“People of Zeon, hear me!” Gihren begins, and delivers a speech for the history books.

> I address you today concerning a grave matter. There has been much deliberation on the part of the Zabi family and of your government as a whole, but this situation could not be ignored in good faith. Our bid for autonomy has been ignored too long. It is time to take our liberation into our own hands! We have heard you, Zeon, we have heard your cries and protests and demands, and we have passed them along to the Earth Federation, our official governing body. You can see where that has left us. I grow tired of waiting on the incompetence of the Federation, who would rather have us kneel and be silent than to live freely and in the way we choose, Zeon herself grows tired. We offer you this solution. With blessings from my father, your sovereign, we, effective immediately, will fully mobilize. Our manufacturing with shift from goods ordered by the Earth to means for us to protect and defend ourselves from the backlash that we surely are to face. Mobilization is a strong word, used in times of war and in times of revolution. This, Zeon, is not a declaration of war. As we are now, we don’t have the capability to employ any sort of offensive without recklessly endangering billions of Zeon lives. So no, this is not a declaration of war. Rather, this is Zeon cutting ties with the Federation completely. We will no longer recognize their authority on any front, we will no longer support their economy with our exports and no longer dance to the tune that old dying men play on their old dying planet. They don’t represent the interests of us, the spacenoid children of the unwanted that they exiled to space, they don’t even represent the interests of the Earth they inhabit! They sit content to command us while their oceans rise and acidify and their deserts eat up more and more of the land. They refuse to fulfill the very promise they made when they relocated humans to the colonies- to protect and safeguard the Earth and repair the damages our population of it’s surface left! We can’t trust them to honor their most basic claims, who’s to say that even if they did listen to our pleas and granted us our independence that it wouldn’t be a sham! No! Zeon, we must cast aside the Earth Federation and it’s hypocrisy. Rise as a new united and self-governing Principality, pave the way for the next generations of spacenoid and earthnoid immigrants alike. So we will mobilize. We will take our freedom with our own hands and protect it to the very last. Zeon, in casting us aside the Federation has made an irreversible mistake. By ruling from the planets surface the chosen earthnoid elite have practically provided us a list of every man who has decided to ignore science and history and morality and remain to poison the Earth. They have diminished responsibility and blame from billions who had no choice, to the privileged ten percent who made their decision.

Cameras have been rolling, likely broadcasting this out to the entirely of Zeon. Probably, but the way Gihren as talking, over Federation channels as well. He points, out into the crowd.

“They have made their decision Zeon, now we must make ours!” This is met by cheers. Char claps politely.

“This is not a declaration of war.” Gihren assures again, “Unlike the Federation, we on Zeon care about what it ours, things that are irreplaceable- Side Three’s colonies, her people’s lives. If we were to enter into conflict now, there would be great losses.” And that energy, the energy of a statesman and a military man roars back into life. His eyes are so hard that their gaze almost feels like a physical slap. The room is electrified, hanging on the man’s every breath.

“But the crimes of the Federation cannot be ignored and the wicked shall not go unpunished.” He announces. You could hear a pin drop. And then he points again, not out at the audience, but directly into the lens of the camera shooting the address. “That was not a threat.” And then he smiles. It feels like ice down Char’s spine. “Rather, it was a promise.”

Then he thrusts his fist in the air and cries, “Glory to the Principality!”

The crowd says it back so loud it must shake the colony.

“Is that what you were so busy with? The mobilization?” Char asks Garma when he finds his way back to him after the address.

“I’m not as high-ranked as my siblings,” and there’s a bit of determination in that tone, “but I’m to be involved with decision making and strategies.”

“Does that please you?” Char asks.

“Greatly.” Garma nods politely at someone who salutes as he passes, “It shows the amount of trust my father and my siblings put in me, despite my lack of experience.”

“Your father,” Char pivots, “He’s not in attendance?”

“The weight of this world is balanced on his shoulders.” Garma grabs himself a new drink. Char does as well, tries not to shoot it back this time. “We’ve been very busy, and he has been known to succumb to the stress. It would do the people no good to see him like that.”

“Won’t they be suspicious that he isn’t here?”

“No,” Garma looks at him, confused “His children are the inheritors of his authority. My siblings and I represent our fathers will. Why would he need to be here?”

“Ah.” Char says. Maybe he should down his drink, he needed to be a little more tipsy to properly ignore the turmoil raging behind his eyes.

“And besides, Gihren controls the majority of the Zeon Assembly anyways. Father isn’t needed for something so trivial.” Garma waves away.

“Excuse me, Garma?” Someone calls, and the two of them turn. It's a woman, dressed more professionally than lavishly as some of the other women here were dressed. She has a press badge, which explains it. She gestures to the badge, hanging on a lanyard around her neck, and at the little audio recorder in her hand. “Mind if I get a response from you about tonights events?”

“Me?” Garma asks, confused. Char smiles.

“Yes,” The woman says eagerly, and presses a button that makes a light on her recorder start pulsing- she was recording. She leans in a little. “What are your thoughts on the call for mobilization?” Garma pauses to consider. A few people around them pause in their conversations, clearly wanting to hear as well.

“I think that the Earth Federation has underestimated us for too long.” Is what Garma finally decides to say. “Zeon Zum Deikun, our founder, said that the denizens of this colony were a chosen people, chosen as in it was the course of fate that brought us together. We as a collective had no unifying thread. We settled here or were forced here, yes, but despite our differences in origins we gathered together under one banner away from our home planet by our own volition instead of maintaining the unsustainable status quo of our earthbound forefathers. I agree with that sentiment, of Zeon being something special, something new.” When Gihren spoke earlier, Char could see none of Garma in him, but here Char could see a bit of Gihren in Garma.

“My fathers generation has sacrificed much to bring us to this point, I feel it is only my duty- our duty- to do the same they did for us to the generation yet to come. But it’s hard for us to create a place to be proud of when our ideas and contributions to humanity are denied and cast aside by the Federation. Look at what happened to Zeon Deikun, a great thinker, a great mind, the man who brought us Contolism and the Newtype Theory. But as much traction as these ideas gain in the colonies they’re deemed as outlandish, even dangerous, by Federation earthnoids. What is so dangerous about a new way of thinking, why must a place like this and a people like ours think only as they do, the people who are selfish enough to remain planet-bound while simultaneously ruling over colonies formed to battle overpopulation and the depletion of our natural resources!?” And he stops himself there, blinking. He retreats back into himself in pieces, softening his statue and letting bit of the fire drain for his eyes. He smiles at the reporter.

“Oh, forgive me, I got a little carried away.” He awkwardly plays with his hair, “Overly impassioned speeches seem to be a family trait.” The small gathered crowd laughs, and it seems that just now is the first time Garma noticed how many people were listing to him, based on the way he swallows dryly.

“What I’m trying to says it that I think mobilization is the next logical step in ensuring our independence, and if the Federation wants a show of force, we will give them a show of force.” And he smiles at the woman again, “Was that enough for your publication?”

“Y-yes!” She exclaims, “More than enough, thank you so much!” And she stops taping.

“Now if you’d excuse me.” Garma says, and glances at Char wordlessly. Char follows.

“That was well said.” Char compliments as they walk away. “Did you practice it?”

“Char.” Garma looks embarrassed, “You just let me talk and make a fool of myself.”

“I thought you looked rather competent and charming.”

“You never think I’m charming.”

“Hm.” He says dismissively, and watched Garma grab another drink. He had the genes for public speaking, but he looked a little bit shaky now. Well, at least they could be rattled together. “Maybe you’re just now noticing.”

“I’d like to think I’m pretty observant.” Garma says.

“You’d be surprised,” Char tells him, “the things you don’t know about people.”

Garma rebounds from his post-speech nerves and decides to be all over Char. It’s almost like he needs Char’s attention as some sort of balm to soothe his anxieties. Or maybe he’s just anxious about Char finally hitting his stride and getting more comfortable working the crowd, straying a bit farther from his prince’s side than Garma would like.

“You’re so possessive tonight.” Char says, bemused. He wasn’t going to confirm or deny his partnership with Garma, but anyone who saw their interactions tonight would certainly know they were involved in some capacity. Garma had been wildly swinging between parading Char around like a show pony and keeping him tucked under his arm, that was not a sign of a normal friendship. Garma hands Char another drink, which he probably shouldn’t take because they were both getting a little too tipsy, but so was everyone else.

“Is is so bad to covet that which is mine?”

“Mm. No.” And that was definitely a hand on his ass, how wonderfully obvious of Garma. “But it is daring indeed for you to presume ownership.”

“Daring?” Garma asks, looks at him from under his eyelashes in the way he knew Char liked, “Or undeniable?”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Garma!” A voice calls.

“Ah, Dr. Flanagen.” Garma says, back to normal and appropriately distant as soon as they had an aware audience, “Good to see you.”

“I can’t seem to find your sister,” the doctor says, “So I’d like to ask you to pass along my thanks to her for her continuous funding of my labs.”

“I’m sure she’d tell you that it’s no problem at all.” Garma waves away. “And Kycilia usually slips away as soon as possible during events like this. I’ll pass along your message.”

“Oh, how rude of me,” Flanagen says, and sticks his hand out for Char to shake, “Dr. Flanagen, of the Flanagen Institute. Side Six.”

“Char Aznable.” He introduces, and the doctors eyes brighten.

“Are you? One of my lab techs won’t stop raving about you, I’ll have to rub it in their face that I’ve met you.”

“Side Six is a long way from here, Doctor. What sort of work do you do?” Char asks politely. He had noticed as Garma was introducing him that there were lots of non-Zeon people in the crowd- he met the president of Anaheim Electronics which was based on the Moon, he met a few representatives of the Side Six government as well as heads of smaller corporations on other Sides, It was interesting meeting all these different kinds of people.

“We’re actually trying to legitimize Deikun’s Newtype Theory.” Flanagen explains. There had much talk of Char’s father in this room tonight, and it always set him a little on edge.

“That’s an admirable goal.” He admits honestly. “Wasn’t it thrown out by the Federation?”

“That’s why we’re devoting ourselves to finding real Newtypes.” The man says, “To give credence and legitimacy to the thoughts of Zeon and the colonies.”

“Have you made much progress?” Char finds himself asking. If there was any developments in his fathers work, he deserved to know about it.

“We’ve found a starting point- that’s half the battle with using science to prove philosophy- but it’s slow going. We can’t exactly test people for supernatural powers.” He jokes.

“I understood the concept of Newtypes to be those who have specialized themselves to live in space.” Char counters, “Streamlined methods of person-to-person communication and differently attuned senses to combat the unique environments of space living.”

“You’re rather well-read, aren’t you.” Flanagen says, peering at Char curiously.

“Ah, where did Garma go?” He deflects. During their little discussion Char’s date seems to have wandered away.

“Oh, he was called over there.” Flanagen says, pointing. Char picks him out a bit deeper in the crowd. There’s someone getting a little too close for Char’s liking.

“If you’d excuse me, Doctor.” He says, “I wish you luck on your research.”

“Feel free to drop by the labs if you ever make it to Side Six.” The Doctor tells him, “I think that you and I could have some interesting discussions.”

“I’d like that.” Char says, and shakes the doctor's hand again. Free, he makes his way through the crowd. Garma seems to be cornered, the woman that he had noticed before now hanging off his arm. 

“Garma,” he says, and smiles apologetically at the woman who’s attached herself to Char’s boyfriend like a parasite. “Sorry for interrupting, but Dozel wanted to see you.”

“Ah,” Garma says, dryly. “Well, I’m sorry, but I must see what my brother needs from me.”

“Oh.” The woman says, staring at Char. He smiles wider. “I see.” She leaves, Char's eyes on her the entire time, and Garma steers he and Char back towards the fringes of the crowd.

“How was the good Doctor?” Garma asks. He sounds too nonchalant. It makes Char huff out a little chuckle.

“Come now, he’s a little too old for me.” He knocks his hip together with Garma's playfully. “Don’t tell me you were jealous.”

“I wasn’t.” Garma denies, but he wraps an arm around Char’s waist, digs his fingers into Char’s hipbone.

“Well, who was that.” Char asks. It’s rather indelicate, and they both know it.

“Possessive, are we?” Garma mocks.

Char smiles at him. “Possession can go both ways.” 

“Indeed.” Garma says, and sips his drink. He says it so sourly, still so obviously put upon that Char had entertained the thoughts of someone besides him that it makes Char laugh. When he looks back to Garma his date is watching him. He looks unbelievably smug.

“Don’t laugh Char,” he says, “the men are watching.”

Soon after the two of them stumble away and into Garma’s bed. Char barely even manages to kick his shoes off before he’s snoring into the pillows. Garma doesn’t even get that far.

Char wakes up and its still dark. The clock says five, so it’s almost morning, but it takes Char a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Garma lays beside him, dead to the world. Char breathes, pulls himself up and out of the covers and swings a leg up and over Garma’s hips. He hovers there up on his knees, looking down at Garma’s sleeping face.

He could kill him. He could kill Garma Zabi right now and all his problems would be over. He would go back to the bliss of not feeling anything. He wanted the numbness back. He wanted to stop thinking and feeling and second guessing himself and saying one thing and doing another. He was sick of Garma and he was sick of his poisonous family.

(So he grabs the pillow he had just lain on, presses it over Garma’s pitifully pretty face, smothers him with his own-)

But that wouldn’t be satisfying, that wouldn’t be satisfying at all.

(So his eyes alight on the clock on the bedside table. It’s heavy and ornate, has hard and sharp edges and it fits so nicely in Char’s hands when he reaches over- so conveniently placed too- and aims for a moment and then brings the clock down in an overhand swing right between Garma’s eyes-)

But that wouldn’t work- Char had already inevitably left hairs on Garma’s pillows. He could admit under questioning to having been fooling around with Garma before the event, that would probably hold up. They weren’t too obvious that the general public would know, but Garma had been rather possessive all night, Kycilia had seen them together the day before and everyone he played with at the club knew he and Garma had _something_ going on, the alibi was good. Just wear gloves so he left no fingerprints, leave a scuff in the soft soil under Garma’s window like someone had been there and then set up all his things in the room across the hall and he would be set. The only downside is that the job would be messy as hell. It was highly unlikely that he could make it across the hall without leaving a trail of gore- hard evidence that the perpetrator didn’t flee back through the window- and even if he used Garma’s shower he would still have to deal with the blood between Garma’s bed and the bathroom. Not to mention disposing of Char’s soiled clothes (difficult when it was such a memorable outfit) and washing the blood and who knew what kind of bone splinters out of his hair. And what if the shower was still damp when they came across the remains, what if they pulled Char’s hair from the drain?

Maybe he could lean into it?

(It would be peak drama. Char Aznable, up-in-coming star, would wake up hours after the deed was done with the remains of his lover in his arms. He wouldn’t scream, no, Char Aznable wouldn’t scream, but he would fling himself away from the corpse and off the bed with a thud. Where he landed against the light carpet he would leave an impression of red, Garma’s blood soaked deep into Char’s clothes and slick against his skin. He couldn’t open his mouth to scream, he could feel something coating his cheek and the corner of his mouth from where _it_ must have soaked up into the pillow, and gets numbly to his feet and leaves crimson fingerprints on the polished door knob. His hair is stuck to his face. He doesn’t dare touch it, doesn’t dare look at any part of himself. So he walks, leaves droplets down the hallway and into the main room where the security detail looks up with horror at his state, at the blood soaking the half of his body that he laid on, at the wild, terrified look in his eye. “Garma is dead.” He would say and, oh, maybe he would even swoon, just Garma’s little shell-shocked love affair, and he would taste copper on his lips and Casval had won but Char had _lost_ -)

But why would the attacker leave Garma’s lover alone? If being the youngest Zabi heir was a crime then surely sleeping with one was as well.

(And he lays back and knows he did his job and he did his job well and presses the blade to his own throat, wet with the blood of his enemy and pulls and-)

But then the knife would still be in Char’s hand, this was about Casval getting away with murder.

(And he hears Garma try to take a wheezing gasp, but he can’t, Char has cut straight through his windpipe- the room must be getting awfully dark from the lack of oxygen- and Char plunges the knife into his own stomach, forces it up to make sure he’s punctured his lungs and tries to ignore the sound he makes when he wrenches the blade free, tries to ignore the fact that it sounds so similar to the sounds Garma makes next to him, Casval was so much better than him in life, a prince to the usurping Zabi pauper, and yet when they die they are reduced to the same desperate pulls of breath and their blood pools together, the same red on the same sheets-)

But his fingerprints would still be on the knife, and why would the perpetrator kill them differently?

(And he plunges the knife down, hand on the back of the pommel to force it through and knocks away the hands that come up to resist him and clamps his left hand over Garma’s mouth to stifle his yells and he stabs him again and again until the down comforter is riddled with holes, throwing feathers into the air with every strike and Char is crying, why is he crying, when Garma’s body beneath his thighs goes limp and he rips the weapon from Garma’s motionless chest a final time, arc of blood painting the waxy dead pallor of Garma’s cheek as it whips up to follow the point of the knife, the knife pointed inward to a heaving undamaged chest and then-)

But that would would look too obviously self inflicted, not to mention the defensive wounds linking him to the crime.

(So he watches Garma’s chest still under the tacky layer of red draining from his slit throat and stabs him after, before his body cools and before Casval thinks about what he’s done, and then next is to lie beside his lover’s corpse and off himself to complete the tableau-)

The sun rises.

The colonies of Side Three are completely enclosed unlike the vast majority of the other colonies which use mirrors and panels to angle sunlight into and away from the interior at appropriate times. Without the ability to use the natural sun, the colonies of S-3 used solar panels to collect energy to fuel a fake internal sun. Since the sunlight is entirely artificial the sunrise is remarkable every time, and apparently rises faster than the view from Earth. This means nothing to Char besides the fact that he gets to watch colors paint Garma’s side profile, early morning sunlight cast through the gap between Garma’s slightly parted curtains. It’s muggy, like Garma said before the party that it would be, so instead of highlighting him with colors with the strength of a stain it rather looks like a layer of water colors or the pigmented sheen of makeup. The orange suits him, the baby pink even more so, but Char is familiar with that color on Garma’s cheeks.

The sun rises. Dawn breaks. And with dawn comes clarity.

He forgets, sometimes, that if he killed himself Casval would die too.

Char presses his thumb to the pulse point in Garma’s neck. All he feels is his own heartbeat.

Could he kill himself? Was Garma enough?

He could kill for love, could he die for revenge?

He flops back over to his side of the bed. He watches the sun rise against Garma’s profile. The stiff peaks of his uniform collar contrasts nicely with the unsettled curl of his hair. It looked nice, but rather uncomfortable. He sits up, watches the sunrise a bit more, and then draws away the covers. He unlaces Garma’s boots, the rasp of the laces through their metal fastenings loud in the silence of the early morning. When he wraps a steadying hand around Garma’s calf the other man doesn’t twitch at all, only makes a brief noise of discontentment as Char tugs at the heel and slides the footwear off and to the ground with a muted thump. The second comes just as easily, socks even easier. Char moves up hovers himself over Garma’s knees and unfastens the clasp of his belt. He shifts up higher and unfastens the two clasps securing his jackets collar together. How either of them fell asleep fully dressed as they were, he’ll never know.

“Garma, my love, work with me here.” He murmurs, and presses a kiss against the hollow of his pale throat. Garma wakes in stages under him, dragged into consciousness by the call of Char’s voice. He stretches, momentarily tugging the front of his uniform out of Char’s gasp, and rubs his eyes groggily. When he yawns his nose wrinkles. “That’s it, darling.” He encourages.

“Hm?” Garma murmurs blearily. Char tugs gently and Garma is docile as a lamb to his arranging and shifting, until Char has maneuvered him up into a sitting position and out of his stiff uniform jacket and pressed pants, until he blinks sleepily up at Char in a light undershirt and his briefs. His hair is a mess. Char tucks it behind his ear for him.

“Good morning.” Garma yawns again, making the end of his greeting lilt up like a question.

“Mm, not yet. We’re still sleeping, you just looked uncomfortable.” And Char loosens his own tie. Garma reaches for it with sleep-clumsy hands and Char lets him untuck it from under his vest and slide it off. It sends shivers up his spine, the drag against the back of his neck. Garma’s hands fumble with his waistcoat’s fastenings and when he yawns again he rests his forehead gentle on the center of Char’s chest. Char is up on his knees, Garma sitting with his legs folded under him sloppily, and he lets his eyes close while he undresses Char entirely by feel.

“It is a good morning.” He argues. His breath puffs hot against Char’s sternum as he exhales, and Char shrugs the waistcoat from over his shoulders.

“Go back to sleep.” Char soothes, and Garma whines when Char tries to nudge his hands away from his shirt, more annoyed than pitiful.

“Char.” And he can feel it when Garma opens his eyes again, eyelashes glancing against his skin. He tips his head up, looks up at him, sat at his knees with half of Char’s shirt in each hand. Char would have to be crazy to say no.

“Garma.” He says, at a lack of anything else to say, and watches him shiver at the sound of his own name. As soon as he is given this permission Garma presses his lips to every inch of skin that he can reach without too much effort as he finishes unbuttoning Char’s dress shirt, lazy gestures that are less like kisses and more like him mapping out the expanse of Char’s chest with his lips since his hands are busy. His hands follow the line of Char’s buttons to his belt and to the fastenings of his pants, only stopping momentarily to part the panels of his shirt and pet his hands down Char’s stomach appreciatively.

“Why are you up this early?” Garma asks. His voice, thick with sleep, rasps beautifully in a way Char didn’t expect.

“Watching the sunrise.” His pants slip over his hips, and Garma touches his hand to Char’s bare chest. His fingertips are five hot points of molten heat against his skin and he presses, just barely enough to let Char feel the bite of his fingernails. He sits back obediently, lets Garma slide his pants off of his legs, sits there in his underwear and socks. Garma’s not taking the time to ogle like he would usually, instead blinking at him sleepily, wiggling his bare feet back under the covers.

“Can we go back to sleep now?” He asks. Char is tired, god, he’s so fucking tired.

“Yeah.” He rasps, scoots closer, “We can go back to sleep.”

The two of them slip back under the covers. The sheets are still warm from soaking up their body heat all night and it is a balm on their bare skin. When Garma settles Char pulls him closer by the waist, tucks Garma up under his chin and against his chest, curls around him.

“You don’t seem the type to like this.” Garma mumbles. Char isn’t, but the sensation of his skin crawling is distracting from the phantom of Garma shattering like glass under his hands

“Just let me hold you for now.” Garma’s hair smells nice. Char hides his face in it.

“Mm.” Garma shifts, burrowing deeper into Char’s embrace.

Through the curtains, the morning sky has gone from muted pink to a dusty periwinkle that looks like it’ll darken into a stormy grey. It’s going to rain.

Char feels sick.

“Hey,” Garma murmurs later, “Are you okay?”

They’ve been lazing around in bed, a bit hungover from the alcohol last night and exhausted from all the excitement, and Char doesn’t really want to go out in the rain, so he’s content to lay between the sheets and try not the think at all.

“What?” He asks. Garma picks his head up, props it against his hand and furrows his eyebrows.

“Are you alright?” He repeats. “Just now you seemed,” and he hesitates, “…not yourself.”

It’s Char turn to hesitate.

The rain beats a tattoo against the ground outside. The flowers are surely drowning in it.

“I think I like you.” He admits into the still air. “I’m not supposed to like you.”

“And why can’t you?” Garma asks. He hasn’t really reacted other than the question, but then again Char isn’t looking at him.

“Because you’re you and I’m me.” He explains as abstractly as he can. Garma will assume he’s talking about Garma being a Zabi and Char being nobody from Side Five, which is fine by him. It just feels nice to say it out loud to someone. Cathartic.

“That’s not a very good reason.” Char looks at him now. Garma looks the same as ever, regal with an undeniable boy-ish charm, even when his hair is tangled and he has the imprint of a wrinkle in the sheets stamped onto his cheek.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“About our differences?” About their families histories.

“I’m conflicted.” He says simply. He tries to stress the importance of this to him, of how much this idle thought is affecting him, but it just sounds like how he always talks.

“It’s okay to be conflicted.”

“Yeah?” Garma said it so confidently Thant it almost takes Char aback for a moment.

“Yeah.” Garma agrees. “Conflict just means you’re aware of your choices. It’s better to see both paths than to only see one.”

“You’re full of little wisdoms recently.” He praises and lets Garma’s words steep. “Politics suits you.”

“It’s nothing.” The Zabi uses his free hand to play with is hair, lithe fingers running through it and smoothing out the tangles that sleep had gifted him.

“Are you conflicted, then?” Char asks.

“No.” Garma says, “I already had my freak out.”

Char smiles, begins to feel it instead of the terrifying numbness that he had been trapped in or the encroaching fear that bubbled beneath the surface of his mind. “That’s rather honest of you.”

“You have the kind of face that makes men panic.” Garma accompanies this statement with a fond little stoke of his thumb over Char’s cheekbone, like he was going to bend down and draw Char into a kiss.

“You make me blush.” He’s not bushing, but he thinks maybe he could if Garma kept saying nice things.

“I’ll wait for you as long as you need. For now I can be certain enough for the both of us.” Garma declares, like it should be written down as he says it. “I like you.” And he glances away, “A lot.”

“A lot, huh?”

“What!?” Garma splutters, offended. Or, it would be read as offended without the aggressive red coloring his face

“How embarrassing…” Char hums. He’s drained. Washed up. Confused about the most basic of ideas.

He turns his head to the side. Garma’s windows are covered in teal curtains, but the gap in the curtains from this morning remains. There’s no sunrise to watch, instead he watches droplets of rain hit the window pane, collecting in fat droplets and painting streaks down the glass.

“It’s raining, just like you said.” He murmurs.

“Of course,” Garma says and shifts. When he settles, it’s to rest his forehead against the nape of his neck, slotting the two of them together like nesting dolls, like a pair of spoons. “I’d never lie to you.” The shape the words is pressed from Garma’s lips to the small of his back. It’s said softly, intent. It’s not the tone one would use to speak about the weather.

Does he like Garma? It’s difficult to say, he typically didn’t care for many people. He could probably count the people that he ‘liked’ on both hands and still have a finger or two to spare. But did he like Garma??

Casval likes his sister. He likes his mother, he liked his father. He likes his cat, he likes his coworkers and he likes the band members that play with him and the working girls who drift in and out of Club Eden’s walls.

Does he like Garma? It was perplexing. He couldn’t possibly, but if he didn’t then why didn’t he kill him?

He ponders this as he runs a gentle hand over Garma’s side.

He likes the women, the prostitutes and the whores and the sex workers, because they speak in a language Casval understands. They had an understanding, they played the same game, kept themselves alive by manipulating and lying and entertaining. Char learned lots from them, how to make money stretch, how to erase the dark circles under his eyes, how to know if someone was following you, how to mean what you say without saying what you mean. There’s a part of Garma that he likes for that reason too. They both talked circles, both were raised in a house of politicians and men of action. Garma talked like one; in abstract terms with hard consequences, spoke with the intention of his words being accepted as law. It was familiar, almost comforting, Char himself was so false that he often had a hard time remembering that most people were entirely genuine. Garma was, but he wasn’t. He had good intentions but went about them circuitously, like he was doing something illicit. To get him to compliment Char straight to his face and to the point was not impossible, but it was more likely for Garma to take the scenic route, so to speak, to say it prettily or complicate the delivery. He made Char work for it a little, made Char listen to everything he said and dissect the meaning and intention from it, but that was exactly how he himself talked, so it was no trouble and, if anything, it was more straightforward to him than how other people spoke in a backwards sort of way.

He liked his coworkers because they respected him. They respected his talents and his efforts in a way that was not just entirely motivated by trying to get Char to sleep with them. Their compliments felt sincere and were about things that Char was genuinely proud of.Not often with men was Char allowed to speak like an equal and Garma recognized and appreciated Char’s mind, asked for his opinions on things of importance.

He liked his cat. It was a bit rude to compare Garma to an animal, but they both provided a tactile sort of comfort that Char didn’t know he was deprived of.

He liked his father. He remembers him through the memories of a child, tinted with fond nostalgia. He was tall, made him feel safe when Casval sat beside him, and he worked hard. Now Casval respected him more than loved him, not sure what his father was really like aside from the few snapshots his mind refuses to let him let go of. He respected him, not loved him, but carried his death with him like a physical scar, because it didn’t have to be like this, someone did this to him, someone made the conscious choice to rid the world of a great mind and a great father. He couldn’t remember what his father’s voice sounded like, couldn’t remember how it sounded when he said Casval’s name, didn’t remember what his birthday was, didn’t know if it was him or mother who bought their pet cat Lucifer for Artesia, couldn’t picture his smile. He respected him, not loved him, thinks of the memories fondly but focuses more on protecting his father’s legacy and his ideals than the man, focuses on it intensely to make up for the devotion he doesn’t feel for the physical figure in his mind, the one his mother still leaves room for in the bed when she sleeps. His passions are Casval’s passions, his drive is Casval’s drive, his mission is Casval’s. Only his mother can speak of his skills as a parent, but all of Zeon knows his passion. He respects his father, and he respects that trait about Garma as well. Garma tries, he tries and tries and tries, strives for his best and doesn’t settle for anything less. He beat on the brick wall that was Char’s affections until it gave, he did the same with his siblings if their attitudes last night were any indication. It was admirable. Foolish, but admirable.

He liked his mother. Garma wasn’t safe- he _wasn’t_ \- but Casval would admit that he was familiar. He knew what was expected of him, how each interaction would go, there was a sort of formula to it. His mother would never hurt him, and when It came down to it, neither would Garma,

He liked his sister. He liked his sister more than anything in the universe, anything on Earth or on the colonies. He liked Artesia more than he liked himself. With her it was like all his problems were meaningless. They still existed, yes, but she was more important, she needed his undivided attention. He and Artesia on their good days barely even had to speak. They were each other’s other half, what they had was greater than spoken word.

And, though it was entirely not the same, Casval knew Garma.

Casval understood him.

“Hello, Char.” Garma says without looking up from whatever report has drawn his attention, and Char knows that he can get away with resting his head on Garma’s shoulder and suggesting little things to help him with his work, or he could kiss him without Garma wanting to start anything, or that he could tease him as much as he wanted so long as he smiled at him at least once.

“Char. Come sit.” And he knows Garma wants him passive, wants him to nod when Garma talks and agree, wants Char to feed his ego with submission and deference. Garma wants to pull out his chair for him and hold open doors but not in a pampering way, he want to be the one making the decisions down to the most minuscule. He wants Char to do what he asks when he tells him to, wants Char to wear what he’s bought him and eat what and when he decides Char should eat. He wants Char to kneel when Garma points, wants him to not say a word unless it’s at Garma’s bidding, wants him to follow his orders because that what they are- orders. Garma wants him and wants him completely, wants to own him, wants to keep him.

“Char.” Garma smiles and Char knows he’s starving for it. Wants Char’s hands on him, wants Char to cage him in against the wall in the alley out back of the club and then lie to his face about why he’s done it. He wants Char to string him along with no reward at the end and wants Char to smile while doing it. Garma will blush when Char leans in close, tremble and flinch when Char puts a guiding hand on his lower back. He wants Char to deny him what wants because it makes his eventual victory that much sweeter.

It was effortless, understanding Garma. It was like breathing.

He didn’t know what that meant.

Casval loves his sister.

Casval loves his mother.

Casval loved his father.

Casval loved Garma?

“Cut that out.” Garma murmurs, but he sounds happy. He briefly uncurls and catches Char’s hand and holds it, lacing their fingers together. Now that he’s captured his prize, he tugs their clasped hands in to where his arm was before, curled against his chest. “Mm.” He hums, content. He’s so cute, Char has caught himself thinking that more and more often (another thing to add to the discussion- Casval was physically attracted to him, that had to count for something in the ‘like’ column) and it was true. He was pleasing to look at no matter what he was doing, but in this moment he looks particularly attractive, scruffy with sleep and tucked against him, so he leans down to kiss the satisfied little smile off his lips. They’re both a little sleep sour but neither of them care because pressed together they’re so warm and cozy and kissing so softly like this feels both so unimportant and like the most important thing in the world. They’re still holding hands, only remembered when Garma tightens his grip in reaction to the sensation of Char’s tongue glancing over the roof of his mouth. Garma is boneless and pliant under him, so Char take the initiative and gets Garma underneath him again.

His spot straddling Garma’s lap is familiar- (and he brings the clock down with a disgusting crunch-) (and he covers his mouth with his hand in horror but Garma’s blood is there too and now it paints his mouth where his hand comes to rest-) (he’ll need to have these knives sharpened after this, they were so incredibly _dull_ -)- but this context is much more pleasant.

He likes this, laying here and falling apart together.

“Char.” Garma melts under him, calls his name like it’s a prayer, and it makes an involuntary shiver roll its way up Char’s spine, makes the hairs on his arms lift like the temperature had plummeted when between them the air was sticky and sweltering.

(Casval loves his sister.)

“Garma.” Char says and swallows down Garma’s pleased exhale.

(Casval loves his mother.)

“Char.” Garma calls again, less of a moan and more of a request for attention. So Char pulls away, at attention.

(Casval loved his father.)

“Yeah?” He breathes. Char doesn’t tend to look in Garma’s eyes often, but he does now. He looks ravenous, starved. It makes Char hungry too, makes him want to lean back down and kiss that mouth until it’s bruised an even darker red, but Garma wanted something. “What is it?”

(Casval loves Garma?)

“Will you fuck me?” Garma asks, breathless.

(No.)

“Yes.” And their kiss is hungry, no faster or hurried than the previous ones but the intention behind it had changed. He couldn’t love Garma, it was unfeasible to love Garma, not to mention not a part of his vague plan. It was the closeness. There was nothing else about it, it was the closeness the drew him in. It was the acknowledgment of his existence, his tangibility, a touch that he could feel, that’s what he liked about this. Garma touched him and he felt pleasure, Garma complimented him and he felt pleasure, Garma did what Char wanted and he felt pleasure, it was easy to get to thoughts of like and _love_ from there. Easy to get his wires crossed and associate the sight of him with good feelings. Garma draws back, presses his forehead against Char’s. It makes him smile, how excited he is, like it’s infectious.

He couldn’t love Garma. It was the aesthetic of the body under him that he enjoyed nothing more than that. Unwilling to move from where Char had him, Garma stretches to reach into his bedside drawer, and the stretch makes the bones under his skin move and shift in a way that entrances him. Beneath him Garma is so absolute, so alive, surging to meet him like the tide, pressed so close it was almost like they were trying to share the same skin. But greedy eyes and covetous hands tell a different story, of skin soft and warm and pliant, of a frame of bone that feels like it was woven from wicker. Garma breathes and his ribcage expands with his lungs. Char can’t see it but he can feel the way each individual rib presses up to meet his reverent fingers, can feel the give when he dips his fingertips into the space between bones, a soft tender spot, like he could twist his fingers and slip his hand between them, wrap a hand around his still-beating heart. His chest, the bend of his ribs, the hard slant from his ribs to the flat plane of his tight stomach, the subtle not-flatness around the dip of his navel, body fat and space for organs and the press of the elastic under his waistband giving Char the perfect soft place to press his lips to. It’s different down here, still sleep-warm and muggy, ambient scent of Garma’s body stronger than the flowers on the end table.

“Don’t you get started with that.” Garma warns and Char feels hands cup his head, body heat scorching against his cheeks and his jaw and his cheekbone. Where Garma leads he follows, so he obediently uncurls and lets the hands guide him until his lips are pressed against Garma’s again. Garma presses to lube he retrieved into his hands between kisses and then his hands flee to strip them both down to nothing but their skin. The container’s light, contents half used up.

“What do you get up to in here without me?” He murmurs, slicking his fingers.

“Doesn’t matter.” Garma parts his thighs, grins sharp when Char shifts so he’s more between them. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” And Garma wraps a hand around his wrist, drags his hand down to where he wants them. “Yeah, I’m here.” And Char presses in.

He’s fucked people before, he’s been fucked by people too, and Garma isn’t exactly squirming like a virgin so it’s safe to say neither of them are each other’s ‘first times’. Fingering Garma isn’t a learning process or anything, isn’t any different than the other times he’s slept with people. Except it is, and he hates that it is. It’s a revelation. He doesn’t know where to look, every part of Garma reacts to his touch. Char sinks his first finger in and Garma inhales sharply, lets his eyes flutter closed, tightens his grip on Char’s wrist so he can just barely feel the bite of his fingernails. Char moves- Garma’s body opening so willingly- loosens him up for a second finger and drinks up Garma’s reactions, rips apart each twitch and breath and files it away.

They just get more and more apparent as Char fucks him, a little twitchy inhale yields a full stuttered breathing pattern with two and three fingers, a pointed tug on the wrist yields Garma grinding himself down against Char’s hand, a little bitten back hum of pleasure yields something fuller and louder.

“Char.” Garma gulps, and tightens his grip around his wrist again. Oh, he wants it.

“Yeah?” Garma was practically putting on a free show earlier so Char’s achingly hard, and he hisses at the touch of his own hand when he spreads lube over his length.

“Yeah.” Garma agrees, spreads his legs even wider, like Char needed more motivation.

“Okay.” Char says, more as a warning to himself that to Garma, and presses in.

It’s not really a sound of either pain or pleasure that Garma makes when Char pauses halfway in. Char can’t name what sort of sound it really is, but he knows it makes him salivate, so he leans down and sinks just a touch deeper and swallows the next one out of Garma’s mouth.

Char presses forward, down, _in_ , just enough to let him feel it. Around him Garma is fever-hot, like the air around them, like the flush traveling down Garma’s throat, like Char palm where it grips his lover’s ankle. The smooth slide is addictive, tangible perfection, coaxes him to lose himself in the feeling of Garma’s body.

“Yeah.” Garma gasps, pants out his encouragements. “Yeah, yeah, give it to me.”

“Patience is a virtue.” Char hisses, and tries not to finish right there.

“This is anything-“ and he whimpers, Char drawing himself nearly completely out before pressing back in, “-but virtuous.”

If Garma is well enough to mouth off then it’s surely fine for Char to move- so he does. He moves how he likes and Garma takes it with the opposite of complaint. He pants in time with the moment of Char inside him, twitches and squirms and blushes, but in opposition to his rather docile demeanor his body seems hesitant to let Char go at all.

“Good?” He asks, because Garma’s squirming could mean lots of different things, and Garma gasps. His whole body jolts up with Char’s thrusts. His hair is in his face and for the first time he doesn’t really seem to care.

“Perfect.” He grabs a handful of the blankets under them, knots his fingers in and holds on, “It’s perfect.” And he tips his head up. “Kiss me.”

Why would he ever say no to that?

Garma is noisy even when his mouth is doing other things, and it makes Char smile, makes him plunge himself a little deeper, makes him lean himself down over the Zabi and brace himself of a forearm placed by Garma’s head. Like this he’s practically covering him, not physically pinning him down but trapping him nonetheless. Like this his face is close to Garma’s own and he can pick out all the minute little expressions that he makes as Char fucks him, can hear even the smallest of noises that Garma would try to keep from him.

“You’re so loud.” He means to say it as an insult, but it comes across entirely too pleased. At this angle he can’t move his hips much, can only really grind himself deeper, but it must feel especially good because Garma yelps, and then slaps his hands over his mouth, eyes wide and mortified.

“Oh?” Char teases, ruined slightly by the utterly enamored look in his eye, “what was that?”

“Char.” Garma growls, muffled by his hand. Char grins and rocks forward like he did before, and Garma makes that sound again, rough like it’s forced up and out of him. It’s followed by him whining up at Char through his nose, and Char leans in and presses a kiss against the back of his hand, right where his lips would be if they weren’t covered.

“No, no, please,” and he squeezes another birdcall of a moan from him with another hard press of his cock, “continue.”

“Ch-“ Garma tries to say but is cut off by another grind, and instead of making him moan it warps the ‘ar’ half of his name into a breathless fucked out exhale.

“Oh, you spoil me.” And he tried to replicate what he did before, wanting desperately to hear Garma say his name like that again. He does, again and again and again, until he’s foregone trying to muffle his noises with his hand and instead throws his forearm over his eyes, avoiding the icy blue that was stripping him down to his bare bones when their gazes meet. “So noisy.” He says again, a pant into Garma’s ear.

“Sh-shut.” Garma rolls his hips down with Char’s next motion hard and it makes Char see stars. “Up.” More sass, which of course means that Garma can take it harder.

So he fucks him and tries to make sense of the enormity of what he's feeling and what he's not feeling. As they go Garma stops making the sounds that Char likes and instead Char gets gasps and whimpers, gets Garma mouthing words but not having the breath to speak them. Garma throws his arms around Char's shoulders, digs his fingernails into Char's back, sets his mouth to Char's throat. Char's thrusts keep his plea's whiney and silent, but he can feel Garma's mouth, could figure out what he was saying if he wanted to.

‘Fuck me’ Garma mouths against him, and his teeth scrape against him in what could pass as either a bite or a silent call of Char’s name. He props himself back up so he's not folded over Garma, scoots back up on his knees again, and gives Garma what he wants. He draws out, repositions and then slides back in. It’s almost too much for him, the long slick glide in and in and _in_ , it makes his breath catch and his head swim with need, but he isn’t alone in his suffering because Garma’s cock drools precum as Char presses back inside and his legs come to trap him, ankles crossing over Char’s lower back. It seems to untrap his voice too, because he mewls, loud and unfairly arousing.

“Char!” He groans, and tries to drag him closer.

“Fuck.” The sleepy, syrupy pace that they set earlier has long since evaporated, given way to Char chasing his pleasure and Garma egging him on, and it has them both at the end of their ropes.

“Garma,” Char warns, “I’m-.”

“In me.” He gasps around the noises Char is knocking free from his chest. “In- inside.”

“Fuck.” He repeats, and Char feels like he’s melting, feels like he doesn’t know where he starts and Garma begins. “Ah,” He breathes, and legs pull him closer, deeper. “Garma.”

“Yes.” Garma hisses like he’s won, and pulls Char in by the back of the neck to kiss him.

When he peaks he says Garma’s name. He cant hear over the whiteout roar of his own blood rushing in his ears but he knows he shapes his lips around the word. Or maybe he didn’t, he couldn’t really feel his face. It seems he’s cum so hard he’s going a little numb, that was a first. Char pants, working his hips thorough his own climax, and Garma practically sobs under him.

“Yes.” He says again, and then again: “Yes, yes, yes.” Until he sucks in a deep breath through his teeth and spills over Char’s hand. Char keeps going, fucks him until Garma is shaking with it and gasps Char’s name, silently.

“Stay.” Garma begs, keeps his ankles crossed and legs firmly around Char’s middle. “Just a while longer. Stay.”

For Garma, he will.

Garma is gone when Char wakes next. He feels exhausted, worn out in good and bad ways, he could probably sleep for another month. But he can’t. He couldn’t possibly sleep right now.

Char knows where he needs to be.

He shrugs on his now-wrinkled shirt, grimaces at himself in the mirror, and instead digs around in Garma’s wardrobe for something that fits him. Once he’s vaguely dresses he steps out into the hallway. He walks, not really sure where he’s going but sure that he was going to a destination. As he walks, bare feet making no sounds against the Zabi’s plush carpet, he is undisturbed. Every guard he crosses paths with is coincidently facing the other direction, or by some stroke of fate otherwise occupied, and there are no people in any of the hallways Char walks. So he walks and walks, turns with a surety that he doesn’t quite understand, and then stops, because, for the first time during this strange journey, there’s a person looking at him. A person waiting for him. It’s the woman from before, the one with Kycilia. She’s wearing a different outfit but her face is unmistakable, the way that Char feels when he sees her is unmistakable.

“You’re here.” Char says, and the beautiful woman turns to look at him again. Her gaze makes the headache pounding at his hairline snuff itself out in an instant.

“You came.” She breathes. And she smiles. “Char.”

“Lalah.” She feels like a warm spot in the room, like she’s glowing or like she’s heavy and displacing her surroundings. She’s what Char imagines a black hole to be like, but also like a supernova, it’s maddening. And she steps closer. He knows it doesn’t really, but the floor under him sways with her step like the rocking of a boat on the water. Maybe Garma drugged him, he thinks blearily, maybe he was tired of Char holding out and slipped something in his drink so he could get a quick fuck out of him and maybe it hadn’t worn off. But he remembers every second of he and Garma Zabi together in vivid clarity, remembers the exact shade of Garma’s sheets and the unending softness of his skin, no part of that reality was warped and weighted like it was now. He wasn’t drugged, there was just something about this girl. Lalah steps forward again and it almost sends him to his knees, and again and again and again until they’re chest-to-chest and her arms are around him in a tight embrace.

“I knew you’d find me one day.” She says into his borrowed shirt, and Char knows that her years have been so lonely. She’s been waiting for him, and he’s been waiting for her, and this is the single most important moment of his life- he’s finally broken the surface of the lake that he’s been unknowingly drowning in and heaved a breath into his lungs. “I knew I’d find you.” She rephrases, and the the air tastes so sweet and she’s so warm and alive beneath his hands.

And he takes her by the shoulders and pushes her away.

He keeps her at arms distance, unable to pull away from the hum of _something_ beneath his hands, and it feels like he’s thrashing just beneath the surface again. He tugs her into one of the meeting rooms beside them.

“Who are you?” He asks when he’s sure the doors are locked behind him, and she blinks at him, puzzled.

“I’m Lalah.” And Char clenches his jaw. “You mean you don’t know? You can’t feel it?”

“Oh, I feel it.” He laughs, “I just need you to tell me what _it_ is.”

“This is us.” She says, doe eyes blinking. “We’re the same, Char, you don’t have to be silent anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He grits, and she purses her lips.

“Yes, you do.” She argues. The conversation pops and sizzles between them like a pan of oil, and it makes his lip curl.

“Do you think I’d be here if I knew what was happening?” He says, and then he asks again, “Who are you? Who are you really?”

“I’m Lalah Sune,” she says, and she looks at him again, really looks at him, “I’m from the Flanagan Institute.”

“You’re a Newtype.” He remembers meeting Dr. Flanagan at the party last night, shaking his hand and saying some idle pleasantry and watching the doctor thank Garma for his families funding of his research. Research into Deikun’s Newtype Theory.

“Yes.” She says with a laugh, and then again, [Yes.] but her mouth keeps laughing. “Can’t you feel it?” She asks again.

“Are you doing this?” He asks. He feels stupid, he has no idea what’s happening and he can’t tell if this woman- this Lalah- was purposefully avoiding his questions or if he just wasn’t asking the right ones. She smiles at him.

“No.” She assures him. “I can though, if you’d like.”

And around them the world explodes into color. In an instant he is no longer standing in an empty room, instead is motionless as the universe swirls around him. He can’t comprehend it, whatever it is he’s seeing, can’t describe it, can’t even really remember things that he sees after he sees them, but the space around him pulsed and swirled with a kaleidoscope of hues like an oil slick. There is no floor under him, there is no sky above him, nothing but emptiness and Lalah, standing opposite him, smiling serenely.

“What the fuck is happening??” He demands. If he throws his hand out he feels it connect with something that he can’t see, the wall the two of them were standing beside, but his eyes are telling him there’s nothing there, just colorful emptiness.

“We’re having a conversation.” Lalah says, pleasantly.

“This isn’t a conversation.” He splutters.

“Are you familiar with the Newtype Theory?” She continues.

“I am.” How could he not know one of the core tenants of his fathers teachings? Newtypes were the next logical step that humanity would take, specializing to live in space, developing a way to connect their species together no matter how distant groups physically became- they would change to become a more unified and understanding humanity. More efficient ways of communication across the vacuum of space, reflexes adapted for the weightless environments that spacenoids grew up in, biologically catching up with all the technological progress of the last age. It was just a theory, but it was a bright hope for everyone to strive for, communication and understanding, a sense of purpose for a disenfranchised, isolated, and abandoned portion of the human race.

“Then you must understand this.” She says.

“This is a dream.” He convinces himself. He’s been in a weird mood, this was just another manifestation of that. He was dying, maybe. He actually killed himself back there, the sex was just his body releasing endorphins and this was just his last droplet of sanity leaving before he kicked the bucket. “You’re not real.”

“Then how did you know my name?” She asks.

“You told me.” She did, she introduced herself.

“You knew before I said it out loud.” She presses. “How?”

“Because you told me,” He gestures, “in the hallway with Kycilia.”

“I didn’t say anything to you.” She refutes.

And she didn’t. Garma and Kycilia spoke. Char introduced himself. And then he looked at Lalah and knew her name on sight.

“No.” He denies, flatly. “This isn’t real.”

“Haven’t you felt this before?” She asks him, “This understanding?”

Casval feels like a cornered animal. The not-void around them stretched on into infinity. It was littered with spots of light, pinpricks both large and small- near and far maybe? It was hard to tell depth in a space with no clear boundaries. What were they, other minds, other Newtypes? Were they two not alone in this? Was there someone out there besides Artesia who could know him so completely, someone who could recognize the weight of his expectations shoved on him, comprehend the things he’s done for revenge- done for love.

Artesia.

They shared something like this. Before, in his kitchen, when she came to tell him off for pursuing Garma. Everything got hazy and unimportant, not as intense and visual as this, but similar in the way it left Char unable to look at something other than the woman across from him. The woman in his head. The Newtype.

“Stop.” He feels like he’s going puke.

“I’m sorry.” Lalah apologizes, unruffled, and then Char is standing on solid ground and the conference table and chairs are just as they left them, if they ever left them at all. “I misjudged your awareness. I was just so excited to meet another Newtype.”

Newtype. She was claiming he was a Newtype. Which meant that his sister must also be one. This girl across from him was one. They existed, here and now, they weren’t a hope for the future, they were the children of the present. His father was right. He wasn’t fighting for an empty promise, he was fighting to protect his own existence, wasn’t avenging a man making assumptions, but a man who predicted the movement of history.

“I can’t be a Newtype.” He tells her, point blank. It was too easy. They weren’t supposed to exist yet, humanity didn’t evolve that quickly, they had only been in space for under a hundred years. The children of the theories creator couldn’t be Newtypes.

But maybe his father saw something in him all those years ago.

“I understand.” Lalah says. She doesn’t argue with him. She simply offers her acceptance, like Char had explained his train of thought out for her aloud. He hated it. He craved it.

“What do you want from me?”

“To consider it.” She tells him. She's serene and beautiful like the strange place with the colors and the lights that she just showed him, but danagerous and eerie. “Understand me like I understand you.” She looks away from him, breifly. “You should run along, Garma is done with his meeting.”

“How do you know that?” His mouth feels dry.

“I can feel it.” She tells him. How on Earth could she ‘feel him’? What was she even talking about?

“Like this.” She says, like she’s ready to instruct. Char can’t help it, he flinches away from her. She says nothing about this, doesn’t even blink, just smiles and walks past him to the door.

“When you’re ready to talk, you know how to reach me.” She tells him.

“No I don’t.” His headache is back now that she’s not looking at him, this stupid fucking headache that wouldn’t leave him alone unless he and this strange girl were talking- he didn’t want her to leave, he wanted to hear more about Newtypes, he wanted to not be alone anymore- but-.

“Yes,” and Lalah smiles, “you do.”

And she leaves him.

When he makes his way home he does his nightly routine to get ready for a night at the club numbly. He feeds Zack, he showers, he gets dressed, he walks to the bar. He preforms and he’s a little off, not majorly, but he feels like he’s floating, and not in a good way. His coworkers just think that he’s hungover from last nights excitement, most people are getting hammered to celebrate the mobilization, and even though they know he’s not quite right they don’t protest when Char say’s he’ll be the one to lock up tonight.

Artesia, who snuck in the back half of his last set, lingers until it’s just them alone in Club Eden. She’s here to berate him about Garma again, about attending an event publicly as his date, but he can see her second guessing herself as she approaches him.

“Are you okay?” She asks instead.

“I met someone.” He says. “Artesia, I met a woman.” And he tells her, lets the words pour out of his mouth easier than any song he’s ever sung and quicker than any lie he’s ever told. Tell’s her about the way Lalah spoke and the strange place the grew between them and about her walking beside Kycilia and about the Flanagen Institute and, hesitantly, about his headaches.

“Well, you need to contact her, like she said.” Artesia says. She seems to be taking this a lot better than him, but she also heard it all second hand. “We need to see her, before the mobilization begins. She was with Kycilia, wasn’t she?”

“Artesia,” he sighs, massages his temples to try to alleviate the pressure in his skull. “Drop it, it doesn’t matter.” The massage doesn’t help, if anything it makes it hurt worse. “I’m not pursuing her angle.”

“It doesn’t matter??” Artesia splutters. “It doesn’t matter?!”

“What’s the point of Newtypes existing if the Zabi’s still exist!” Casval gestures at himself, gestures at Artesia. “What’s the point of human enlightenment if it’s cost is the blood of our people?! Of our dignity?”

“You talk about dignity?!” The air around them boils, and Artesia’s rage settles on the back of his tongue like it has a tangible taste. “You’re whoring yourself out to the people who are hunting us down and you have the nerve talk about dignity!?”

“I am not-!” And he buckles under her angry shout,

“You ARE! You are, Casval! You really think that you are ushering about the world Father talked about by fucking Garma Zabi into doing what you want him to.” She clenches her fists, and for a moment he thinks that she’s going to swing on him, but she just squares her shoulders and shakes. “You met a Newtype, and you learned Zeon is weaponizing them, _and_ you say you experienced a clarity _just like Father said Newtypes would bring_ -.”

“There was no ‘clarity’, Artesia.” He argues.

“Well what happened to you in that room, Casval?” Her eyes are pleading, as if begging him for the understanding that he spoke of, “You left thinking differently, didn’t you?”

“Well then I’ve been experiencing ‘clarity’ for the past week straight.” He snaps. “It’s called a breakdown, Artesia. I’m having a breakdown.”

“You are not having a breakdown.” She protests.

Char gestures to himself, tries not to yell like his gut is telling him to. “What else would you call this?!”

“I think you’re depressed and crying out for help.” Artesia says, and Char narrows his eyes at her.

“Fuck off.” He tells her.

“Casval, you won’t let me help you. You’re killing yourself like this!” He turns away, but she tries to grab his arm, but he shakes her off, glares at her. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself,” she cries, “and yet you still insist that hanging off a slimy spineless fascist’s arm until you can kill him in his sleep is the way forward?”

“It’s a clear way forward, Artesia!” It leaves him in a rush, and it must take her aback, the way it hangs in air between them. “You think I want this? You think I like forcing myself to be this?” It makes his skin crawl to look in the mirror nowadays, to see the hollow sham of a man he’s become. To walk through the halls of his childhood home and not scream and cry and tear the grand portraits of his oppressors off the wall. To, on one of their lavish dinner dates, not pin Garma to the dinner table like a mounted insect with his steak knife and rip him apart with his bare hands. To not give up and tell Garma everything, press his throat against the blade.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that Casval is tired. _Char_ is tired. And he is out of options.

“I could try anything and not get this good of a chance again.” He thinks of the years wasted, of the years struggling to keep his family safe and alive, the years of living under a regime that’s taken more from him than he can say, and he lets it bleed out of him like sweating out a fever. He needs to see Lalah. He needs to see Garma. He needs Lalah to tell him what the raw hurt in his chest means, needs Garma in front of him so he can stop being Casval and smother all of this ugly feeling behind Char’s sly smile. But its Artesia who’s looking at him now. Artesia, Sayla, the other half of his soul, Artesia who he can never hide from. So he turns away.

“They will die, Artesia.” He says simply. “They will die, for what they’ve done to us.” She’s not touching him, but she is; hands smoothing down his shoulders soothingly and forehead pressed against the back his neck in a desperate pantomime of an embrace that exists only in his mind.

“Father wouldn’t want this.” She tells him, and it’s jarring to hear her voice from farther away than the brand of comfort and warmth he feels against him. “He was a pacifist, an idealist, and our Father. He wouldn’t want you to throw yourself away like this.”

“Casval Rem Deikun is dead, Artesia.” And he aches when he says it, “There’s nothing to throw away.”

“Cas-.”

“Father may have preached understanding and nonviolence, but someone must shoulder that burden so the rest may go without. I will be what is needed of me.” 

“What is needed of you.” She mocks, spits it back at him like a curse. “I _need_ my brother, Casval.”

“Goodbye, Artesia.” He says, and flicks the key to the front door at her. It hits her in the chest, clicks against the zipper of her jacket and falls to the floor with a metallic clatter. “Lock up for me, will you?”

He leaves out the back door, and that’s the last time he speaks to her.

_NOVEMBER, UC 0078_.

A perk of dating someone richer than you is that you get to tag along on all of their trips and don’t have to pay a single cent. With Zeon publicly mobilizing the Zabi family was busy trying to rake up support and contributors to the cause. This meant Garma, the most approachable Zabi, was stuck doing a lot of PR work and making public appearances. These were low stakes, low stakes enough that Garma could pack Char’s bag for him, slap a fancy bow on it and call his duties to the Principality a date. It was these ‘working dates’ that put the two of them in this situation: Char back on Side Five, tacking up a horse for his boyfriend to ride.

“You looks so nervous.” He laughs, patting the horse on the flank while looking over his shoulder at Garma.

“We don’t exactly have horses on Zeon!” He protests.

“Sure we do.” Char exclaims, “I’m sure there’s horses somewhere.” He’s chosen a nice chestnut horse for Garma to ride. The stablehands assured him she had a mild temperament and would follow a lead trail horse with little input from the rider, which is exactly what Char needed. He himself was riding a nice paint horse who looked impatient to get going, mainly because the same people who swore up and down by Garma’s mount tried to dissuade him for choosing this one because she was a jumper. That was no problem for Char. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I said that I wanted to do whatever you did for fun on Side Five as a kid and I meant it!” Garma announces. His mare knickers, and Char pulls away, finished adjusting the fit of the saddle fastenings.

“Well we’re on a different colony cylinder, we don’t have to do exactly what I used to.” They were on one close to Char’s old home, close enough that Texas’ busted mirrors reflected a bit of sun into this colony too, making it hot and dry, but not as inhospitable as Texas.

“Help me onto the horse.” Garma tells him with a scowl. Char puts his hands up in surrender.

“Anything for my Lord and Liege.” Garma scowls more at that.

“You’re not funny, you know that?” Garma snips. Char helps him onto his horse by offering a simple hand to hold, Garma does the rest himself.

“But my fair Prince,” he removes his sunglasses and presses them over his heart like they’re a hat, and he bows. “You look so dashing. You must be praised.”

“Still not funny.”

“But you fall for it every time.” He says with a smile and he mounts his horse.

“Unfair.” Garma whines.

“You asked what I did for fun.” Char defends. “It makes sense that I’m better than you, I have more experience.” After he's ready and makes sure that Garma isn't going to slide off he grins giddily and points at the trail marker.

“Alright, we’re off!” And he nudges his horse forward.

“Wait! Char!” Garma calls from behind him. “How do you make this thing move?!”

Their trail is beautiful, scenic and rather tranquil. The path is wide enough that Char and Garma can ride side by side and talk idly, but they abandon that for Char up from and Garma following when they get to the narrower paths leading up to a scenic overlook.

“Go on.” Garma tells him when they get to their destination. Garma starts unstrapping the little picnic basket that his horse had attached to her saddlebags, “Go do horse things.” 

With Garma's blessing he rides a little further down the trail until it opens up into a space he can really ride in.

"Let's see what you can do." He tells the horse. She seems to agree with his sentiment and takes off at a breakneck pace. She jumps like a dream, and Char moves with it like he hadn’t left in the first place. He has missed this, he realized. Horse-riding, after a beat of thought, is the only hobby Char thinks he’s ever had.

“Did you have fun?” Garma asks when he’s done. He’s sitting patiently, stirring a sugar packet into his travel cup. Flowers are growing from between the rock he leans on and the ground, and they’re only a shade or two off from his hair color, straying on the pink side. He has a half sandwich set out on the blanket across from his own things, laid on the paper that it was wrapped in for transport. Their horses are tied to a fallen log, grazing happily. Char brushes himself off before he joins him.

“Are _you_ having fun?” He questions instead of answering, and sits opposite Garma on the picnic blanket.

“It’s a beautiful day and I’m in good company,” Is Garma’s response, “why wouldn’t I be enjoying myself?”

“Then I guess I’m having fun too.” He shrugs, “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Char.”

“What?" He exclaims, "I’m being serious!”

Garma twirls his hair, pouting up at him through his eyelashes, “Shut up and eat your lunch.”

Char’s birthday passes. He never was really one to celebrate, but Artesia usually stops by. Since their argument Artesia hasn’t reached out and neither has Char. She’s never missed a year, but he’s not holding his breath.

She doesn’t come.

Though the preparations were complete, Garma was still busy with the mobilization. He wasn't drowning in forms and files anymore but he did tend to get caught up in things. There were less postponed dates, but more Char arriving and waiting on Garma wrap up whatever conversation that he was indulging himself in. Char sits. There’s really nothing for him to do until Garma is finished doing whatever he needed to be doing. Char doesn't wait in Garma's rooms, he waits in the same little sitting room that he first played for Garma in so he can amuse himself with the piano. 

Usually he's undisturbed. Usually.

Gihren is just as dignified and imposing in his day to day as he is behind the podium. He has intense eyes, a strong chin and an inexhaustible confidence, has Kycilia’s strong shoulders and Garma’s nose. He opens the door, steps in and closes the door behind himself without a word.

“My apologies, Commander.” Char says. He doesn’t let his hands stop traveling over the keys, but he does play softer, so voices could be heard. “Did you need the room?” If he stopped playing there would be no buffer between his hands and the other man in the room, but even if playing is the safer option it feels dangerous to keep his back turned. “Or am I disturbing you with my playing?”

“There’s only so long someone can be satisfied with listening through walls.” Even his walk is confident. He crosses from the door to the couch on Char’s peripheral. “I came to listen.” There’s the rustling of papers- he’s brought his work with him. “If you would be so kind.”

“I would be honored.” And Char adjust, abandons his meandering jazz piano solo he was toying with in his head, and plays something a bit more refined.

As what he’s playing is a symphonic poem it’s a bit difficult to gauge when and where Garma enters the room at. The door opens somewhere near the end of the sonata’s exposition, Char sparing a glance to watch his tardy lover close the door behind him as quietly as possible. With that done he crosses, sparing a fond glance at Char’s side profile, and sits beside his brother. Close enough to remind that they two are family, close enough to see the similarities and dissimilarities in their genes, but far enough apart that it speaks volumes about the two’s relationship. If it were Char, Artesia would’ve tucked herself against his side and glanced at whatever he was working on, or even sat crosslegged on the cushion besides him with her knee pressed against his. Garma has left space, and Gihren hasn’t looked up from his readings. Why was Gihren here? To monitor him? To keep tabs on the stranger roaming his house? Had he caught Char reading Garma’s papers- did he suspect him any of the many things that Char could be executed over? If so, then why would he be the one sitting here. He surely had lackies and grunts to do all his dirty work for him. If he thought Char was a threat then why would he bodily put himself in harms way- or maybe that was the point, a show of power.

He was letting his mind get ahead of him. This wasn’t solving anything.

If anything, now that Garma is in the room the energy in the air is tenser than it was without. Char and Gihren were pretending to do other things while watching each other, Garma had no qualms with unapologetically staring at the two of them. He seems even more confused as to why Gihren his here than Char himself is, but he also seems pleased see him. He loves his brother, Char can see it in the way Garma smiles faintly just to be near him, but he keeps glancing between them with a strange look on his face.

The third time the door opens it's Zenna Zabi.

Dozel’s wife is petite, shorter than Garma himself, with lovely red hair pulled into a stately updo. She looks every bit the prim and proper wife of a politician- even as rough and tumble as Dozel was, he was still a politician. Char had seen her around, passed her in the halls once, but they had never officially met. He thought it was a pity, a talented young woman like her throwing her career away for a Zabi, but who was he to judge. The Zabi in question- Char’s Zabi, now wasn’t that a thought- smiles when she enters and waves her over.

If he’s remembering correctly she and Garma were schoolmates. It must be strange, having your brother marry someone from your calculus class.

Zenna settles in an armchair apart from the two brothers. Char feels no danger from her, she is here genuinely to listen.

His fingers are beginning to cramp, he’s not used to playing classical.

The next time the door open Kycilia is the one who comes through it. She has no eyes for Char, only for her eldest brother.

“Gihren.” She says, hard.

“Kycilia.” And Char didn’t forget what his voice sounded like, but it is jarring to hear him speak nonetheless, no matter how many of his speeches he gave. Gihren had the kind of voice that made you want to stop what you were doing and listen. “It’s rude to discuss matters of state during a recital, wouldn’t you say?”

It only takes Gihren that long to effectively muzzle his younger sister. If the pen was mightier than the sword then Gihren was far mightier than Kycilia, though his words were brief and her sidearm holstered. She bristles and the eldest Zabi goes back to reading the files in his grasp. Kycilia, dismissed, sits between her brothers, posture perfect. She crosses her legs, makes herself look elegant and imposing even though she was stuck straddling the awkward crack between couch cushions. Garma turns to her and smiles.

“Sit straighter.” Kycilia grumbles, and Garma complies post-haste.

Somehow Dozel entering the room is quieter than Kycilia.

He peeks his head in, takes in the strange scene, and then smiles when his eyes alight on his wife. He doesn’t sit, but rather stands behind her Chair with his hands resting on the back of it by Zenna’s shoulders. They were so different, Dozel so large and broad scarred and Zenna so petite and non-threatening. They looked fairly happy together.

Distressingly, Char’s waiting room had become a family affair.

If any of them had any suspicion, it was all over. They were all here, gathered in the same place, by the same seemingly innocuous alignment of the stars, but that seemed too good to be true. He only needed to slip up once. Speak with too much of a Zeon accent when the man called Char Aznable was from Side Five, hold his head too high in the presence of fake royalty, look too comfortable around the firearm at Kycilia’s and Dozel’s side, do anything to suggest he wasn’t who he said he was. He breathes. Music was unfulfilling, just a means to an end, but he did have to admit it was good stress relief.

Char finishes the piece and finally lets himself sit back. Not relaxed, no, but motionless. He receives applause from Garma, Zenna, and Dozel, Gihren is still calmly reading the documents he brought with him and Kycilia wasn’t here for the music anyways. Now that he’s finished she does lean closer to him, start speaking softly to her brother.

“That was wonderful.” Zenna compliments. In the time Char was distracted trying to hear what Kycilia was saying Zenna has gotten up from her chair and crossed to him. He stands to meet her, as it’s only polite. “I took lessons as a child, but I couldn’t do anything like that.”

“Thank you,” He smiles at her and then turns away to cover the piano keys, fallboard clicking into place softly. “And forgive the length of the piece. I didn’t realize I would be playing for an audience.”

“How long have you been playing?” Zenna asks politely.

“Four years.”

“Only four?” She exclaims, “I would have thought you’d been playing all your life.”

“Oh, no.” And he smiles. “I was never very musically inclined.”

“But aren’t you a singer?”

“Not by choice.” He admits, fakes embarrassment, “I’m the product of near constant practice.”

A gift for oration and a magnetizing presence inherited from his father, pleasing looks and dexterous hands inherited from his mother. These were to make him a great activist, a great leader of the people, a voice of the cause, that’s what his father always said, what his mother teased him about. He’s had to adapt them, but he’s using the gifts his parents gave him.

Oh, how proud they’d be of their son.

“I’ve never heard you play that one before.” Garma has joined them now, and he smiles encouragingly at Char. If Garma could sense his nerves perhaps he wasn’t looking as unaffected as he was trying to.

“What, do you know my whole catalogue?” And Garma laughs, Zenna laughing along.

“I am your biggest fan.” Garma admits.

“Well you’ve earned yourself another one today too, Mr. Aznable.” Zenna says. She’s incredibly endearing, Char finds himself liking her in that vague way of his.

“Please, just Char.” He’s been Char Aznable for years, but he still distinctly felt like an imposter when called by only his stolen last name.

“Then you have to call me Zenna.” She barters. Garma just looks pleased that the two are getting along.

“Alright then, Zenna.” And he smiles, “But if you do want me to live long enough for me to call you that again, you should probably go back to your husband before he gets too jealous of you talking with another man. He might just take things into his own hands.”

“Oh!” Zenna says, glancing over her shoulder breifly at Dozel who stands just in front of the door, waiting. “Yes. Thank you again, Char.”

“See you.” Garma bids her farewell fondly.

“See you.” She says back with a smile and returns to her husband's side and the two of them exit. It’s odd, but this is the first time Char can remember seeing Garma talk with someone his own age.

“Sorry I kept you waiting.” Garma says and kisses him hello, only barely hesitating to do so in front of his two elder siblings.

“It was no trouble.” Char promises, “It never is.”

“Shall we?” Garma asks, gesturing towards the door. Char hums, acceding to whatever elaborate date night Garma surely had planned.

But first…

“I hope it was to your tastes, Commander.” Char says, lingering in the doorframe.

“A waltz, next time.” Is all Gihren says in response. He scrawls something on his papers, and the way he squares his shoulders makes it seem that he’s penning the world’s next great opus and not cramped annotations in the margins of a throwaway report. It’s pretentious, but Char is a little jealous of the commanding presence the Zabi exudes without even trying. Garma is nothing, a rosebush with easily evadible thorns; Gihren is made of marble, impenetrable and unruffled. Char wanted to split him open and see what kind of rot poured out of his collapsed skull.

“I look forward to it.” He says pleasantly at Gihren’s clear dismissal. He thinks about saying something else, to make Kycilia who stands at Gihren’s side waiting for Char and Garma to clear the room stew in her impatience a little longer, but he’s been forward enough tonight. So he bows his head graciously with all the charm and congeniality that he doesn’t feel, and ducks out of the room. Garma follows him after a brief word, and closes the sitting room door behind him. The air feels less oppressive with just the two of them together, and as they walk down the hall Garma keeps looking back at him, stealing quick little pleased glances.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Char asks. Char walks a few steps behind him, it’s only proper after all, but Garma keeps slowing his pace until Char gives up and walks next to him like the wants.

“They’re making an effort.” Garma says simply.

To do what, Char wasn’t sure, but it couldn’t be good.

_DECEMBER, UC 0078._

After Side Five and the next colony they visit is the capital colony of Side Six. Here the Zabi’s have appointments with various government officials and important people in Riah politics, so though Char tags along he doesn’t see Garma often. What Garma does to entertain him is set up a brief but thorough list of places that, in advance, had requested Char to sing for them. It was almost like touring. Between shows in their rare free moment together Garma asks if he has anything he would like to do while they are there. Char thinks of Lalah and the Newtype Labs and says no.

The night he gets back from Side Six he has another strange dream, Garma and he older and married and living happily together. Garma had grown his hair out and had it held back with a scarlet ribbon and Char had his hair shorter. It’s uneventful, the two of them having a lazy afternoon together, and Char has had far worse dreams in his life. No matter how boring though, this is the one that he won’t be able to forget.

‘Good morning.’ Char sends, idly stirring his tea as he sends the message. He’s never sent the first message before, but he’s sure Garma wouldn’t mind.

Their next off-colony date is on Side Two. They stay for two weeks, half of that solely reserved for movement between the colonies. They take an even bigger ship this time, Kycilia and Gihren both lurking in it somewhere, Dozel occupied with some secret project. The Zabi’s seem to be content to sightsee here, unlike on Side Six where they all seemed constantly busy. Hatte is lovely in Char’s opinion, somewhere right between the industrialization of Munzo and the barren natural landscape of Loum. It also has a bustling nightlife, which leaves Char the busiest of them all. Off-colony touring talent is a rare occurrence when space travel is so long and expensive, so Char plays to sold-out crowds and is paid handsomely. Garma attends each show, allowed a chair off-stage just out of the sightline of the audience and he listens intently as always. The two of them linger before and after Char’s gigs as well, sampling the unique sounds that each colony inspires from it’s musicians. Hatte seems to enjoy something a little bouncier, instruments and tones more electronic than the things that Char’s usual audience liked to hear. It was amazingly interesting, but Side Two’s artists seem just as curious about Side Three’s sound as he is theirs, inviting him to play with them and exchange ideas and sheet music. A few of them even had heard of him before, confessed to listening to the few recordings he had put for sale. Char was incredibly confused at this development, but Garma seemed inordinately pleased that no one had seemed to know who he was and were focused on Char instead. The odd group- Char and Garma and Kycilia and Gihren- linger longest on the capital colony, Island Iffish. They go on a proper date there, dinner and a show at a beautiful playhouse. It’s an old Earth classic. Char tries not to think too hard about the lovers double suicide at the end.

Casval is dreaming. He’s been dreaming a lot recently, which he’s not sure if he should be concerned about. Half of his dreams are normal, but the other half is like this, Casval floating- or maybe falling- in that strange place that Lalah had showed him, the strange emptiness beyond either of them. It was lonely without her, lonely even with the strange warm lights in the distance, but it was almost nice. Here none of the aches and pains of his day applied. It as relaxing in a kind of existential way, soothing.

“Char.” Lalah says above him, and Casval closes his eyes. The pleasant sensation he thought was just a form of ambient noise was actually her hands petting through his hair. He’s not standing upright like he assumed but is actually laying (as much as one could lay with no tangible floor) with his head in her lap.

“Are you real?” He asks. It’s a valid question, with her Newtype status and her belief in the existence of his own, and she laughs. It’s an enchanting sound, low enough that Char can almost feel it rumble through him, and it makes the tension in his shoulders bleed away.

“Last time I checked, yes.” She says, and when her nails scratch against his scalp he shivers, lets his eyes close. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking of you earlier.” Comes unbidden to his tongue, “I wanted to see you.”

“What a coincidence.” She hums, amused, “I wanted to see you too.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” She yanks on the lock of hair she’s playing with chidingly. “Now where have you taken us?” Char opens his eyes, and stares out into the sea of colors and lights they were floating in.  
“No clue.” He says, and rolls until he’s facing in instead of outward, tucking his head into the warmth of Lalah's stomach. “And I don’t care. Keep going?”

“Needy.” Lalah scolds, but it sounds so fond it makes Char’s teeth ache, and soon her warm hands are back to running through his hair pleasantly. “Aren’t you curious about how this whole thing works?”

“Maybe.” He says, and deigns to shrug. “But I’m tired.” Too tired to deal with this Newtype bullshit and too busy to have any personal revelations.

“I could sing for you,” Lalah offers, “to help you sleep.” In all the years that Char has been singing he doesn’t ever think he’s had someone sing solely for him, not even when Crowley was teaching him the ropes.

“That sounds wonderful.” Char murmurs, and closes his eyes.

Lalah sings a song in a language he doesn’t know about a swan, flying down to land on a lake.

Char doesn’t stay awake long enough to know if it floats or drowns.

JANUARY 3rd, UC 0079

Club Eden is busy. Extraordinarily busy.

Everyone is drunker than usual and if they’re not drunk they’re aggressive. Char is not drunk or aggressive, rather he’s feeling absolutely nothing at all. As he sings there is an officer staring at him. Char was not a stranger to lustful gazes, but this one particularly was ravenous. The man's eyes linger, they don't skate around like most others do, practically undressing him. What else could Char do, surrounded by drunks and prostitutes, but see what the man wanted. 

“Char Aznable.” The man says when he approaches, introduces himself as Miguel Gaia, “I can see why Garma keeps you around. You’re talented.”

“Yes.” He agrees. He isn't here to talk.

“Tell me,” Gaia muses, swirling the excess ice in his glass around, “Do those talents extend to other areas as well?” Gaia was objectively attractive, broad and dirty blonde with facial hair that suited his face well. He looks like he could easily physically overpower Char himself, looks like he would enjoy it. Char thinks he might enjoy it as well.

“Why don’t you find out.” He challenges, and that’s how he’s ended up where he is now, getting fucked within an inch if his life bent over the club bathroom’s sink. Gaia is rough, just like Char knew he would be, preps him with nothing but spit and a few thrusts of his thick fingers. It burned, it was uncomfortable, but Char was feeling something. Pain was something.

Gaia sinks in to the root and Char has to keep himself from screaming. It was perfect, god, he felt like he was getting split in half, and the officer fucks into him at a brutal pace. Char isn’t being quiet, he doesn’t care if anyone knows what he’s doing in here, and the officer laughs at his whining, tangles a hand in his hair and pulls, making Char pick his chest up and bend back like an arc. It makes his breathing shallower, makes tears spring to life in his eyes at the sharp pain. Gaia spits in his palm and his slick fingers pet at Char’s rim, like that would soothe the brain-melting pain ripping its way up his spine, like that would make up for the fact that he was undoubtedly torn somewhere. It’s like he expected him to be open and ready for him, like he looked at Char onstage and assumed he would be wet and prepared to spread his legs and take whoever caught his eye.

“Who knew that the Zabi’s precious little pet was such a needy whore.” The officer grunts, and uses his free hand to smack Char’s ass. “Say it.”

“I’m a whore.” Char pants obediently, and is rewarded with another heavy handed slap. It hurts, everything hurts so fucking much. The hand in his hair is twisted so tight that it makes white dots dance behind his eyes, the man’s thrusts pushing him against the edge of the counter again and again, edge pressing into the front of his thighs so hard it makes him want to flinch away. “I’m a fucking whore.”

“Louder.” The man laughs and he does something that makes Char feel like he’s being electrocuted, hands scrambling to brace himself against something, slapping on the mirror with a loud bang. “Sing for me.”

“I’m a needy fucking whore!” And he can roll his hips back now that he has leverage, fucking himself back on the thick cock splitting him open. “Harder.”

“You aren’t in the position to make demands.” The officer growls, but his next thrust has Char gasping, so he clearly listened. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” He feels nauseous, head spinning and whole body lit up with pure, unfiltered pain. But he was feeling, something was cutting though the swampy grief that had entangled him, and it was addictive; someone touching him and making him stop thinking. That hand smacks him again, but he keeps his hand pressed to his ass and digs his fingers in.

“Acting like you’re starving for it.”

“I am!” Char babbles, and wonders how much of his hair Gaia will yank out when he inevitably removes his hand.

Gaia fucks him until Char is boneless, until he doesn’t care how much the hand in his hair hurt and goes limp, arms unable to support him any longer. He feels rubbed raw, all traces of lubrication gone, and when the officer pulls out he feels like he can finally breathe again. Gaia himself is catching his breath, but Char gets no rest before the man tugs him around.

He barely gets the chance to see Gaia’s face, he had forgotten what he looked like, before he’s speaking, “Beg me for it.” And Char is guided to his knees. The ground is gritty and slick, and he hasn’t escaped that oppressive hand in his hair, because as soon as he’s missing it there is a palm pressing a hot brand against his hairline and fingers twisting into his bangs and pulling, pulling until Char is up on his knees instead of leaning back on his heels and the man’s wet dick smacks against the side of his cheek. “As for it nicely and maybe I’ll let you gag on my cock.” The hand in his hair is making his eyes water. “Fuck your face until you get me nice and wet for you again.” Just the promise of something in his ass again makes him clench and breath through a pang of desperation that rips though him.

“Please.” He begs, and he feels like he’s shaking. He’s sinking back into the fog, ache in his hips just a hazy reminder of Feeling, but he doesn’t want a reminder. He wants physical sensation; he wants pain. He wants this man to fuck him so hard he cries. “Let me suck your dick.”

“You can do better.”

“I’m a dirty fucking skank and I want to choke on your fat c-!” And he gags as Gaia forces himself to the back of Char’s throat. He holds him there by the roots of his hair and Char tries to not let the tears welling up in his eyes spill out. He curls his hands around the back of the man’s knees and digs his fingernails in. The officer yanks him off so fast it makes him cough and then slaps him across the face so hard it makes his teeth click.

“No scratching.” He says, voice hard, and as soon as Char changes his sharp grip to one without nails he’s pulled back onto his cock. He’s at least ready for it this time.

The man uses Char as he pleases, fucking his hips into his waiting mouth and setting the rhythm with hard pulls to his scalp. When he pulls him off Char is almost drooling, and Gaia looks down at his handiwork, disgustingly satisfied. Char is feeling anything but satisfied.

“I want it.” He gasps, tugging ineffectually at the man’s thick thighs. He opens his mouth, lolls his tongue out like that will entice him to shove his dick down the back of his throat again. “Please.” He slurs around his outstretched tongue. His saliva drips to the floor between his knees with a wet splat.

“Jesus, kid.” The man curses, but lets Char swallow him down. “Yeah, fuck, get me wet for you.”

Char gives it to him sloppy, all mouth and no hands, gags all he pleases and doesn’t care the mess he’s making of himself. When Gaia shoves him off he bends himself over the counter willingly. Gaia spits in his hand, rubs it where Char is open and wanting, and then presses back in.

“Yes.” Char hisses, wet glide sending his abused nerves into overdrive.

“Such a nice ass, fuck.” Gaia praises, spreading his cheeks with greedy hands, and his palms are like hot brands against his skin.

He looses some time here, floating away on the sensation of him being pushed and pulled in a way that pleases this stranger, his ass being pounded so thoroughly it makes him dizzy. Looses himself in the exquisite feeling of being forced open and taking it raw and rough. The officer’s hands are everywhere, knotted in his hair, pressing marks into his hips, yanking one of his knees up and onto the counter, spreading him open and letting him hit a new angle. When Gaia brings his hand over his shoulder to rest over his throat he feels the leg holding him up wobble dangerously.

“Choke me.” He gasps when Gaia sheathes himself to the hilt and then grinds himself impossibly deeper. It makes Char feel like he’s being pinned open at the hips, like the officer was carving a permanent space for his cock in Char’s insides.

“You’re a freak, Aznable.” But there’s a low, indulgent laugh in his ear and the hand around his throat squeezes.

He cums untouched.

“Oh fuck.” It barely leaves his throat, voice sounding, well…strangled. He didn’t even know he was close, wasn’t paying attention to his body’s reaction to stimulus, instead focusing solely on the stimulus itself. So it takes him by surprise, rolling over him like a wave and wringing him out like a sponge. And all around that grip on his neck and the cock in his ass, both hard and demanding all of his attention.

“Smack me if you need to breathe.” Gaia grunts, and his breakneck pace is punishing. Char whines around the hand clamped around his throat and shakes through his climax, grip slowly tightening like a vice.

Char is floating. Char is floating and he’s not sure if he wants to come back down.

He whips his hand back and smacks Gaia’s shoulder and gasps when the hand around his throat slackens and then shifts up to cup his jaw. It’s only when the room brightens suddenly as soon as he gets air in his lungs that he realizes how close he was to passing out.

“Slut.” The man snarls, like its praise, and Char pants, doesn’t deny it. Gaia’s broad fingers slip over his abused lips, three of them curling and tugging, snagging on the corner of his open mouth. He’s snared like a fish on a hook, and when the man pulls Char back with that hand it feels like his cheek is going to tear open like it’s tissue paper.

It hurts even worse post-orgasm, his inside abused and raw.

“You came, didn’t you?” Gaia growls and Char makes a dizzy noise, drowning in overstimulation. He thought it hurt before, he thought it felt good before, but it is nothing compared to the electrifying sensation of this rough treatment after he had finished. He felt like he was getting run through a paper shredder, like he was being ripped into tiny little pieces starting from where the two of them touched, from the hips and from the fingers being slipped from his mouth.

“Hah,” Char gasps, unsnared, but before he can even miss them three fingers are plunging back into his open mouth. Gaia rubs his fingertips against Char’s tongue and he tastes his own cum, Gaia had swiped his fingers through the mess Char had made on the counter, and he feels completely and utterly debased. Used. He's _feeling_.

“Fuck,” Gaia groans, “You’ll just do anything I tell you to, won’t you?” And he pulls out, Char already begging for him to fuck him again before he’s gotten the chance to breathe. The fingers are pulled from his mouth and press his head down, until his cheek is pressed against the counter and he willingly licks all traces of himself from the dirty countertop.

“You’re a dog, Aznable.” And Char moans, knees shaking. “You think because you’re on the arm of a Zabi that you’re better?” he tries to shake his head in fervent denial, but Gaia just pushes his face harder into the countertop. “But you know your place, don’t you?” He smacks Char’s ass again, and he’s so wound up that when it lands it lights up his nerves like a string of electric bulbs. “Don’t you!?” He demands, and Char has the feeling he won’t let up on his grip on his hair until he tells him what he wants to hear.

“Yes!” He shouts, voice raw and cracking.

“Yes, what!?” All he can taste is the cum in his mouth and feel the white hot pressure of those hands, and it makes him stupid, it makes him open and vulnerable like a nerve, and it makes him desperate.

“Yes, sir!” It sounds like a sob. It is a sob, Char can taste the salt of fallen tears. Or maybe sweat? The officer pops the head of his cock past his rim, thick and blunt, and then hammers home. It punches the breath out of him, makes him feel like there’s no room in his body for air, only room for someone to fill him how he aches to be filled.

“God.” Gaia curses, “Like a bitch in heat.” And he starts up again. It's too much, Char feels like he's melting, “Acting like you’ll die if you don’t have a cock in you.”

“Yes, sir!” He repeats, and the officer groans, breath uncomfortably warm against the back of Char’s neck. “Please, fuck your bitch, sir.”

“The mouth on you.” He swears, and his hips stutter.

“Please.” Char begs, “Please, please, please, please!”

“Take it.” Gaia growls, like Char had any other option, and spends inside him.

He does his next batch of songs with cum leaking out of him. Gaia sits with two other officers at a booth in the back who all watch him with wolfish eyes. He’s used to hungry looks, but it’s different when you know that these stares come from people who have just heard that he took a strangers dick in the bathroom between sets so hard that he cried. His voice is rough, but he just chooses songs that sound fine with a bit of a rasp.

The trio is waiting for him when he leaves the stage at the end of the night. “D’you have a minute?” Gaia asks, voice mild like he didn’t put these bruises on Char’s throat. When Char doesn’t say anything contrary they bring him to one of the private rooms in the back. This wasn’t what they were built for, but this exact situation is what they were used for more often than not. This is who he is now. This is who Char Aznable was.

The door closes behind him. One of Gaia’s friends is already unthreading his belt.

Char drops to his knees. He wants this so bad he can taste it. Wants to feel the ache in his jaw, the uncomfortable stretch of his lips. He wants it to hurt. He wants to feel something.

The three men leave Club Eden an hour past closing.

Char stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, wiping the evidence of his night off his face with numb hands.

Then he falls to his knees for the final time of the night and dry heaves over the toilet.

It was January 3rd of the year 0079 of the Universal Century, and the Principality of Zeon had declared war on the Earth and killed billions in mere hours.

A gas attack on Sides One, Two and Four, the purging of civilians. The places he had been with Garma, that had all been a horrible, horrible front.

Bile stings the back of Char’s throat.

He wants to feel sad, angry, satisfied, horrified, _something_ , but he can’t feel _anything_.

JANUARY 4th, UC 0079

He calls out sick. He spends the day with Zack, watching him idly bat a toy mouse around. He looks at his bruises in the mirror with a sick sense of satisfaction. He doesn’t eat.

JANUARY 10th, UC 0079

Garma sends him a single rose that arrives via courier along with a note begging his forgiveness for being absent for the next week. It shows up at eleven on the dot, right when Char is drinking his first cup of morning coffee. Then, at three, he drops a colony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Char: aha sex as self-harm, don’t mind if I do :)
> 
> I just wanted them to have a Mobile Suit Gundam The Origins Blanket Moment in bed, is that too much to ask?  
> GARMA BABY YOU ALMOST HAD HIM!!!!!!! GARMA YOU WERE DOING IT !!!!!!!!  
> anyways don’t fucking sleep with other people when you’ve established that you’re in a monogamous relationship with someone. I almost didn’t put the char/gaia scene in from a moral standpoint, but sex (and physical touch in general) really are what I’ve established as things char uses as some sort of wack ass coping mechanism so,,,,,  
> (and im blaming char for striking a stupid slutty pose against his zaku in the yas manga before the battle of loum... “have at you, my good tri-stars”… char I will fucking killl you with my bare hands stop it I’m begging you)  
> If that scene twasnt your cup of tea, rest assured that the end of this chapter is the only bit of infidelity unless I go MAJORLY off-roading the next chapter  
> well…  
> maybe not *majorly*….  
> …  
> next time on mobile suit gundam; ACT THREE- Lalah Sune
> 
> also this will not be shown but please imagine a scene of char sitting in a free clinic and getting tested to make sure he is still clean after sleeping around. It is this, not his morals, that keep him faithful……he hates waiting rooms…

**Author's Note:**

> Garma: his weed? i roll that. his hand? i hold that. his back? i got that. his husband? i am that. my role? i play that. we're happy? they hate that.
> 
> God, sorry this chapter is lowkey boring, the plot doesnt really start until next chapter smh. babies first fanfiction and you can tell.
> 
> I mention the currency 'hytes' at the beginning of this chapter. for the life of me i cannot fucking remember if any other fictional currency is ever mentioned in gundam besides char's stupid gold bars. i think char pays for axis in cca with gold bars too. i hate him with all my fibers.  
> anyways hytes is the currency name-dropped in War in the Pocket when Bernie pays for his shuttle ticket off Side 6, along with 'kules' being talked about in the first episode. im making a lot of assumptions here however, like assuming that sides 3 and 6 use the same currency even though they are both vaguely autonomous in their own ways. true, zeon did help riah become a republic, but they keep close ties with the earth, so maybe hyets are an earth federation space age universal credit, or maybe theyre exclusive to side 6. well fuck gundam, in this fic they're credits used on all the colonies bc i dont doubt that the EF would attempt to get a leg over on spacenoids by having a earth-space exchange rate that favors the earth.  
> also, i have both char and garma drinking alcohol in this chapter, even though both of them are (and this is an inference in garma's case since he and char were in the same grade in canon) only 18. i am obsessed with this for some ungodly reason. char and garma both drink multiple times in 0079/origins, always kinda inferred to be alcoholic, but always before the American drinking age that im familiar with of 21 and of the japanese drinking age of 20 (fun fact: apparently its been that age in jpn since 1918?). so, tomino i DO care about the gender shit and all the other horrible horrible opinions you've expressed with this property and youre on thin fucking ice, but PLEASE, what is the DRINKING AGE i cant stop fucking thinking about it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! are they just letting char and garma drink because theyre both famous?????? is the drinking age 18????? does char aznable have a fake id????? (more fake than his identity theft, i mean) ?????? Does Charma Drink Apple Juice In The Fucking Club????  
> zack is the name of the cat that char adopts/lets live with him in chars daily life, and char with a cat just makes fucking sense to me. zack RIGHTS.  
> date!char wears white bc he wears a white suit to the bar after he k*lls garma in 0079 and because white suits exude a kind of big dick energy that im sure char would want to bring to a first date  
> i make it a point to mention at every opportunity that Char Aznable, The Red Comet, Zeon's Ace, cannot drive a car because it makes me piss myself. char is a gay that cant drive but he IS a gay that can operate a mobile suit.  
> final note, i think, but yeah char and saylas mama is Free because im a mama's boy and if i were char aznable i would simply prevent myself from getting mommy issues by keeping my mom from being slowly poisoned or whatever. smh. 
> 
> anyways, thanks for reading. see you next chapter for 'ACT TWO- Char Aznable'.  
> i do not apologize for the length of the end notes, i have a lot to say.


End file.
